FT MEPDE 
GenCol 1 


PZ 3| 
.S157 
P 

3 





- 



'/V^ * * ' V^* ‘’•♦fv®’ ‘ V'^ ‘'”‘®«/V^ * * ’ < 

I'* ^ 

<JU^ CV ^^ 1 * Of 

V .•’,v-!‘‘'>'''’ 

\m^mT <vA -^£iP5 c5>*rn. 


f* •• XxMgjCv^ jg X ^ 

iT -sV ^ ** o o 

V/.»H.\)J^ *r A^ v ^1 o j 

% , ^ooo,^%J'* • • ' "'•«fV“ • '*! 

^ov^ V 




KSMHKiSii 5 V-V <• r 

o o r 

► ^ <^r ^ ♦ 'V - 

**^ 0 ^ ""ov^ /^fe'* V 

^ ^ Cl 

iw 5 .>wV;i. I^i^® 


v> ^ 


»^' -M«. 








it 


S' 


I 





•k 



4 





fTiiTnTitji' 

iHiidiiirf 


^'tOtRT 





0 


‘•1 Jr < 

JiR 



'vv 

ill 

IH 





PICCIOLA 


THE 

PRISONEE OF FENESTRELLA 

OR, 

CAPTIVITY CAPTIVE. 

BY X. B. S A I N T I N E. 



A NEW EDITION, WITH ILLUSTHATIONS. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

BLANCHARD AND LEA. 
1854 . 


p 






■ 



Frintei by T E. 3c P. Q CoUius. 


/ 


PUBLISHERS’ ADVERTISEMENT. 


During the eight years which have elapsed since the first 
appearance of Picciola, it has assumed the position of a 
classic. It has been crowned by the Academie Fran^aise ; 
and has passed through numberless editions, in every form, 
and at every price, from the costly and elegant edition de luxe^ 
to the cheap volume for schools. It has been translated into 
several foreign languages. In England it has met with a 
cordial reception; and in this country, the favour with 
which it has been received is attested by the number of 
editions through which it has passed, the appearance of an 
impression in the original, and the demand for imported 
copies. 

Under these circumstances, the publishers have thought 
that the numerous admirers of this beautiful little tale might 
be pleased to possess it in a form more suited to its merits 
than any in which it has heretofore appeared in this country ; 
they have therefore prepared this edition, with Illustrations, 
and an Introduction from the author, with the assurance of 
an extended sale. 

PhUadelphia, April, 1847. 


1 * 


( 5 ) 




:i r.) A: ‘<<^4?: ^it imiH 



■|!S*'-5 

zljt '. 

. // i' 

[■/;■ r--o 

•; ^41 

* '•^'i nii. 

^ liiO : 



ucii Im.j 

I' -r rj?ii 


■I »-■’)./ 

'• "‘v 


.'iTfrjqti 

% 



vA • 


n '>•»•■ 

I s. , » 

ti 



<5 5 , -i' r 

./. ( 

r .r^ . 

f; 


4 


- •';- '‘"Jr 

' ’ r-. 

k' 

fi f- /:<" 




mo i k 


‘j, 4^ 

v;^ 


1 ■ , 

^?ftr<. ' li 

!•:' 

: i 



1 ; ’ ' 


■ :*« 



^•U t' 

Vk1<\ 

J k\^1 

' h 

5^ ;■ 

•^yi^y 


•Aii> *1.*® 

^ o T' ' 

fSit'* 

1-! 

^ 1 2 ' ^^ ' ! 

K-^V- - A’* 

iT rvj : =' 

rJ t 

: vf -rilW 

Wt 




.1 * * d ' 


r*- iy 

■■' 1 ( ' 



\, ’• 



'• 


4’? . 

kilt \i 

; h:'M 

V" # 







V, 




W‘V" 

: ^^r:v- 

*"> H-* 


: i>»>r 

k 

n 



Ji-A > 


f ^;rJ i?:* 

r »;/ 


' t9<fl ni 



-j :. 

itfdi 



•f>>- V 


- 1 /7-':‘ ■ 

'n 5l 

f 'rv>.A * '• 


../ V 


v^.,.: : >;-^V^r' i ;d ?*::(■', I i.; v" ‘ 

\7-i- \^ ': f ?rr ' iH' ;^ .'>.?! ^ .■;1' , :u^i 


.n:’ .{.i . 0 1 ' 

i*- ' . 


INTEODUCTORY EPISTLE 


TO 

MADAME VIRGINIE ANCELOT. 

g 

I HAVE re-read my book, and I tremble in offering it to 
you ; yet who can appreciate it better? You like neither 
romances nor dramas ; my work is neither a romance nor a 
drama. 

The tale which I have related, madam, is simple ; so sim- 
ple, indeed, that perhaps never has pen laboured on a subject 
more utterly restricted. Aly heroine is so unimportant! 
Not that I wish beforehand to throw the fault of failure on 
her; for if the action of my little history is thus meagre,, its 
principle is lofty, its aim is elevated ; and if I fail in attain- 
ing my purpose, it will be that my strength is insufficient. 
Yet I am not careless as to the fate of my labor, for in it 
are the deepest of my convictions ; and believe me that, 
more from benevolence than vanity, I hope, though the 
crowd of ordinary readers may pass over my work with 
carelessness, that still for some it may possess a charm, for 
others, utility. 

Do you find interest in the truth of a story? If so, I offer 
that to you to compensate for what you may not find in the 
story itself. 

You remember that lovely woman, so lately dead, the 
Countess de Charney, whose expression, though mournful, 
seemed already to breathe of Heaven. Her look, so open, 

( 7 ) 


so sweet, ^’hich seemed to caress while wandering over you, 
and to make the heart swell as it lingered ; from which one 
turned away only to be drawn again within its enchant ment] ^ 
you have seen it, at first timid as that of a young girl, sud- 
denly become animated, brilliant, and self-possessed, exhibit- 
ing all its native energy, power, and devotion. Such was 
the woman ; a marvellous union of tenderness and courage, 
of the weakness of sense and the strength of soul. 

Such have I known her ; such did others know her, long 
before me, when her soul was excited only by the affections of 
a daughter and of a wife. You understand the pleasure with 
which I dwell with you on such a woman ; I may not often 
again have the opportunity. Still, she is not the heroine of 
my story. 

In the only visit which you made her at Belleville, where 
was the tomb of her husband, and now, alas ! her own, you 
more than once seemed surprised with what you saw. You 
were struck with an old, white-haired man, who sat next 
her at table, whose appearance and manners were coarse, 
even for his class. You saw him speak familiarly with the 
daughter of the countess, who, beautiful as her mother had 
been, answered him with kindness, and even with deference, 
giving him the name of godfather, which, indeed, was the 
relation he bore to her. Perhaps you have not forgotten a 
flower, dried and colorless, in a rich case ; and, also, that 
when you asked her concerning it, a saddened look stole 
over the countenance of the widow, and your questions re- 
mained unanswered. This answer you now have before you. 

Honored with the confidence and affection of the countess, 
more than once, before that simple flower, between her and 
the venerable man, have I listened to long and touching de- 
tails. Besides this, I hold the manuscripts of the count, his 
letters, and his two prison journals. 

I have carefully retained in my memory those precious 
details ; 1 have attentively perused those manuscripts ; I have 


INTRODUCTION. 


ix 


made important extracts from those letters; and in those 
journals have I found my inspiration. If, then, I succeed in 
rousing in your soul the feelings which have agitated mine 
in presence of these relics of the captive, my fears for my 
little book are vain. 

One word. I have given throughout to my hero his title 
of count, even during a time in which such dignities were 
obsolete. This is because I have always heard him so called, 
in French and in Italian; and in my memory his name and 
his title are inseparably connected. ^ 

You now understand me, madam. You will not expect 
in this book a history of important events, or the vivid de- 
tails of love. I have spoken of utility ; and of what use is 
a love-story? In that sweet study, practice is worth more 
than theory, and each one needs his own experience : each 
one hastens to acquire it, and cares little to seek it already 
prepared in books. It is useless for old men, moralists by 
necessity, to cry, “ Shun that dangerous rock, where we 
have once been shipwrecked !” Their children answer 
them, “ You have tempted that sea, and we must tempt it in 
turn. We claim our right of shipwreck.” 

Yet is there in my story something still of love; but, be- 
fore all, of a man’s love for shall I tell you ? No, read 

and you will learn. 


X. B. SAINTINE. 


* **' vf i 


•. :. •:; . = f t ' . '!'<'V 


r- 


•? 


> i 


f 



,:,. ,■■ i-.-! ) • • V , ' ■ "• '■ 

' ’: , -fl.r .Ir>- liSl?',-’)^-''^’ ' 'V .' 

' j| / OC ■■' V .7 

. .■%f-'- . ' *VtfT .•r;^-^,. '’,*tn 

• r»-= .-• ■ 1 ..^t. ■'=/• . r- .■••* V'‘t ■<• y\ 



PICCIOLA. 



BOOK I. 


£7 


CHAPTER I. 

Charles Veramont, Count de Charney, whose name is not 
wholly effaced from the annals of modern science, and may be 
found inscribed in the mysterious archives of the police under 
Napoleon, was endowed by nature with an uncommon capacity 
for study. Unluckily, however, his intelligence of mind, schooled 
by the forms of a college education, had taken a disputatious turn. 
He was an able logician rather than a sound reasoner; and there 
was in Charney the composition of a learned man, but not of a 
philosopher. 

At twenty-five, the count was master of seven languages ; but 
instead of following the example of certain learned Polyglots, who 
seem to acquire foreign idioms for the express purpose of exposing 
their incapacity to the contempt of foreigners, as well as of their 
own countrymen, through a confusion of tongues, as well as intel- 
lect, Charney regarded his acquirements as a linguist only as a 
stepping-stone to others of higher value. Commanding the ser- 
vr'ces of so many menials of the intellect, he assigned to each his 
business, his duty, his fields to cultivate. The Germans served 
him for metaphysics ; the English and Italians for politics and 
jurisprudence ; all for history ; to the remotest sources of which 
he travelled in company with the Romans, Greeks, and Hebrews. 

In devoting himself to these serious studies, the count did not 
neglect the accessory sciences. Till at length, alarmed by the 
extent of the vast horizon, which seemed to expand as he ad- 
vanced ; finding himself stumble at every step in the labyrinth in 
which he was bewildered — weary of the pursuit of Truth — (the 
unknown goddess,) — he began to contemplate history as the lie 
of ages, and attempted to reconstruct the edifice on a surer foun- 


14 


PICCIOLA. 


dation. He composed a new historical romance, which the learned 
derided from envy, and society from ignorance. 

Political and legislative science furnislied him with more posi- 
tive groundwork; but these, from one end of Europe to the other, 
were crying aloud for Reform ; and when he tried to specify a 
few of the more flagrant abuses, they proved so deeply rooted in 
the social system, — so many destinies wera based on a fallacious 
principle, that he was actually discouraged. Charney had not the 
strength of mind, or insensibility of heart, indispensable to over- 
throw, in other nations, all that the tornado of the Revolution had 
left standing in his own. 

He recollected, tbo, that hosts of estimable men, as learned, and 
perhaps as well-intentioned as himself, professed theories in total 
opposition to his own. If he were to set the four quarters of the 
globe on fire for the mere satisfaction of a chimera ? This consi- 
deration, more startling than even his historical doubts, reduced 
him to the most painful perplexity. 

Metaphysics afforded him a last resource. In the ideal world, 
an overthrow is less alarming; since ideas may clash without dan- 
ger in infinite space. In waging such a war, he no longer risked 
the safety of others; he endangered only his own peace of mind. 

The farther he advanced into the mysteries of metaphysical sci- 
ence, analyzing, arguing, disputing, — the more deeply he became 
enveloped in darkness and mystery. Truth, ever flying from his 
grasp, vanishing under his gaze, seemed to deride him like the 
mockery of a will-o’-the-wisp, shining to delude the unwary. When 
he paused to admire its luminous brilliancy, all suddenly grew 
dark ; the meteor having disappeared to shine again on some re- 
mote and unexpected point; and when, persevering and tenacious, 
Charney armed himself with patience, followed with steady steps, 
and attained the sanctuary, the fugitive was gone again ! This 
time he had overstepped the mark ! When he fancied the meteor 
was in his hand — grasped firmly in his hand — it had already 
slipped through his fingers, multiplying into a thousand brilliant 
and delusive particles. Twenty rival truths perplexed the horizon 
of his mind, like so many false beacons beguiling him to ship- ' 
wreck. After vacillating between Bossuet and Spinoza, — deism 
and atheism, — bewildered among spiritualists, materialists, ideal- 
ists, ontologists, and eclectics, he took refuge in universal scep- 
ticism, comforting his uneasy ignorance by bold and universal 
negation. 

Having set aside the doctrine of innate ideas, and the revelation 
of theologians, as well as the opinions of Leibnitz, Locke, and 
Kant, the Count de Charney now resigned himself to the grossest 
pantheism, unscrupulously denying the existence of one high and 
supreme God. The contradiction existing between ideas ana 


PIC CIO LA. 


15 


things, the irregularities of the created world, the unequal distri- 
bution of strength and endowment among mankind, inspired his 
overtasked brain with the conclusion that the world is a conglo- 
meration of insensate matter, and Chance the lord of all. 

Chance, therefore, became his God here, and nothingness his 
hope hereafter. He adopted his new creed with avidity — almost 
with triumph — as if the audacious invention had been his own. It 
was a relief to get rid of the douhls which tormented him by a 
sweeping clause of incredulity ; and from that moment, Charney, 
bidding adieu to science, devoted himself exclusively to the plea- 
sures of the world. 

The death of a relation placed him in possession of a consider- 
able fortune. France, reorganized by the consulate, was resuming 
its former habits of luxury and splendour. The clarion of victory 
was audible from every quarter; and all was joy and festivity in 
(he capital. The Count de Charney figured brilliantly in the 
world of magnificence, elegance, taste, and enlightenment. Having 
attracted around him the gay, the graceful, and the witty, he un- 
closed the gates of his splendid mansion to the glittering divinities 
of the day, — to fashion, bon ton, and distinction of every kind. 
Lost in the giddy crowd, he took part in all its enjoyments and 
dissipations; amazed that amid such a vortex of pleasures he 
should still remain a stranger to happiness! 

Music, dress, the perfumed atmosphere surrounding the fair and 
fashionable, were the chief objects of his interest. Vainly had he 
attempted to devote himself to the society of men renowned for 
wit and understanding. The ignorance of the learned, the errors 
of the wise, excited only his compassion or contempt. 

Such is the misfortune of proficiency 1 No one reaches the 
artificial standard we have created. Even those who are as learned 
as ourselves are learned after some other fashion; and from our 
lofty eminence we look down upon mankind as upon a crowd of 
dwarfs and pigmies. In the hierarchy of intellect, as in that 
of power, elevation is isolated : — to be alone is the destiny of 
the great. 

Vainly did the Count de Charney devote himself to sensual 
pleasures. In the infancy of a social system so long estranged 
from the joys of life, and still defiled by the blood-stained orgies 
of the Revolution, attired in rags and tatters of Roman virtue, 
yet emulating the licentious excesses of the regency, he signalized 
himself by his prodigality and dissipation. Labour lost. — Horses, 
equipages, a splendid table, balls, concerts, and hunting-parties, 
failed to secure Pleasure as his guest. He had friends to flatter 
him, mistresses to amuse his leisure; yet, though all these were 
purchased at the highest price, the count found himself as far as 
ever from the joys of love or friendship. Nothing availed tu 




r I c c I 0 L A . 


smooth the wrinkles of his heart, or force it into a smile : Charney 
actually laboured to be entrapped by the baits of society, without 
achieving captivation. The syren Pleasure, raising her fair form 
and enchanting voice above the surface of the waters, fascinated 
the man, but the eye of the philosopher could not refrain from 
plunging into the glassy depths below, to be disgusted by the scaly 
body and bifurcal tail of the ensnaring monster. 

Truth and error were equally against him. To virtue he w'as 
a stranger, to vice indifferent. He had experienced the vanity of 
knowledge; but the bliss of ignorance was denied him. The gates 
of Eden were closed against his re-entrance. Reason appeared 
fallacious, joy apocryphal. The noise of entertainments wearied 
him; the silence of home was still more tedious; in company, he 
became a burden to others ; in retirement, to himself. A profound 
sadness took possession of his soul ! 

In spite of all Charney’s efforts, the demon of philosophical ana- 
lysis, far from being exorcised, served to tarnish, undermine, con- 
tract, and extinguish the brilliancy of every mode of life he se- 
lected. The praise of his friends, the endearments of his loves, 
seemed nothing more than the current coin given in exchange for 
a certain portion of his property, the paltry evidence of a necessity 
for living at his expense. 

Decomposing every passion and sentiment, and reducing all 
things to their primitive elements, he, at length, contracted a 
morbid frame of mind, amounting almost to aberration of intellect. 
He fancied that in the finest tissue composing his garments, he 
could detect the exhalations of the animal of whose fleece it was 
woven — on the silk of his gorgeous hangings, the crawling worm 
wiiich furnishes them. His furniture, carpets, gewgaws, trinkets 
of coral or mother-of-pearl, all were stigmatized in his eyes as the 
spoil of the dead, shaped by the labours of some squalid artisan. 
The spirit of inquiry had destroyed every illusion. The imagina- 
tion of the sceptic was paralyzed ! 

To such a heart as that of Charney, however, emotion was in- 
dispensable. TJie love which found no single object on which to 
concentrate its vigour expanded into tenderness for all mankind ; 
and he became a philanthropist ! 

With the view of serving the cause of his fellow-creatures, he 
devoted himself to politics, no longer speculative, but active; ini- 
tiated himself into secret societies, and grew a fanatic for freedom, 
the only superstition remaining for those who have renounced the 
higher aspirations of human nature. He enrolled himself in a 
plot! — a conspiracy against nothing less than the sovereignty of 
the victorious Napoleon 1 

In this attempt, Charney fancied himself actuated by 'patriotism, 
by philanthropy, by love of his countrymen! — More likely by 


PICCIOLA. 


17 


animosity against the one great man, of whose power and glory he 
was envious ! An aristocrat at heart, he fancied himself a level- ) 
ler. The proud noble who had been robbed of the title of count, 
bequeathed him by his ancestors, did not choose that his inferior 
in birth should assume the title of emperor, which he had con- 
quered at the point of his sword. 

It matters little in what plot he embarked his destinies; at that 
epoch, there was no lack of conspiracies! It was one of the many 
hatched between 1803 and 1804, and not suffered to come to light: 
the police — that second providence which presides over the safety 
of empires — was beforehand with it! Government decided that 
the less noise made on the occasion, the better ; they would not 
even spare it so much as a discharge of muskets on the Plaine de 
Grenelle, the scene of military execution : but the heads of the 
conspiracy were privately arrested, condemned, almost without 
trial, and conveyed away to solitary confinement in various state 
prisons, citadels, or fortresses, of the ninety-six departments of 
consular France. 


CHAPTER II. 

In traversing the Alps on my way to Italy, — an humble tourist, 
with my staff in my hand, and my wallet on my shoulder, I re- 
iiiember pausing to contemplate, near the pass of Rodoretto, a tor- 
rent swollen by the melting of the glaciers. The tumultuous 
sounds produced by its course, the foaming cascades into which 
it burst, the varying colours and hues created by the movement 
of its waters, yellow, white, green, black, according to its channel 
through marl, slate, chalk, or peat earth, — the vast blocks of mar- 
ble or granite it had detached without being able to remove, around 
which a thousand ever-changing cataracts added roar to roar, cas- 
cade to cascade ; the trunks of trees it had uprooted, of which the 
still foliaged branches emerging from the water were agitated by 
the winds, while the roots were buffeted by the waves; fragments 
of the very banks clothed with verdure, and driven like floating 
islands against the trees, as the trees were driven in their turn 
against the blocks of granite; — all this, these murmurs, clashings, 
and roarings, confined between narrow and precipitous banks, 
impressed me with wonder and admiration. And this torrent was 
the Clusone! 

Skirting its shores, I pursued the course of the stream into one 
of the four valleys retaining the name of “ Protestant,” in the 
memory of the Vaudois who formerly took refuge in their solitudes. 


18 


PIC CIOLA. 


Tliere^ my torrent lost its wild irregularity ; and its hundred roar- 
ing voices were presently subdued. Its shattered trees and islands 
had been deposited on some adjacent level ; its colours had re- 
solved themselves into one ; and the material of its bed no longer 
distinguishable on the tranquil surface. Still strong and copious, 
it now flowed with decency, propriety, almost with coquetry : 
affecting the airs of a modest rivulet as it bathed the rugged walls 
of Fenestrella. 

It was then I visited Fenestrella, a large town celebrated for 
peppermint water, and the fortress which crowns the two moun- 
tains between which it is situated, communicating with each other 
by covered ways, but partly dismantled during the wars of the Re- 
public. One of the forts, however, was repaired and refortified 
when Piedmont became incorporated into France. 



In this fortress of Fenestrella, was Charles Veramont, Count de 
Charney, incarcerated, on an accusation of having attempted to 


FICCIOLA. • 19 

subvert the laws of government, and introduce anarchy and con- 
fusion into the country. 

Estranged by rigid imprisonment, alike from men of science 
and men of pleasure, and regretting neither, — renouncing without 
much effort his wild projects of political regeneration, — bidding a 
forced farewell to his fortune, by the pomps of which he had been 
undazzled, — to his friends, who were grown tiresome, and his mis- 
tresses, who were grown faithless ; having for his abode, instead 
of a princely mansion, a bare and gloomy chamber ; — the gaoler 
of Charney was now his sole attendant, and his imbittered spirit 
his only companion. 

But what signified the gloom and nakedness of his apartment? 
The necessaries of life were there, and he had long been disgusted 
with its superfluities. — Even his gaoler gave him no offence. It 
was only his own thoughts that troubled him ! 

Yet what other diversions remained for his solitude — but self- 
conference? — Alas! none! Nothing around him or before him 
but weariness and vexation of spirit ! All correspondence was in- 
terdicted. He was allowed no books, nor pens, nor paper; for 
such was the established discipline at Fenestrelia. A year before, 
when the count was intent only on emancipating himself from the 
perplexities of learning, this loss might have seemed a gain. But 
now, a book would have afforded a friend to consult, or an adver- 
sary to be confuted! Deprived of every thing, sequestered from 
the world, Charney had nothing left for it, but to become recon- 
ciled to himself, and live in peace with that natural enemy, his 
soul. For the cruelty with which that unsilenceable monitor con- 
tinued to set before him the desperateness of his condition, ren- 
dered conciliation necessary. His case was indeed a hard one ! 
A man to whom nature had been so prodigal, whose cradle society 
had surrounded with honours and privileges, — he to be reduced to 
such abject insignificance! — he to have need of pity and protec- 
tion, who had faith neither in the existence of a God nor the mercy 
of his fellow-creatures ! 

Vainly did he strive to throw off this frightful consciousness, 
when- in the solitude of his reveries it alternately chilled and 
scorched his shrinking bosom : and once more, the unhappy Char- 
ney began to cling for support to the visible and material world, — 
now, alas ! how circumscribed around him. The room assigned 
to his use was at the rear of the citadel, in a small building raised 
upon the ruins of a vast and strong foundation, serving formerly for 
defence, but rendered useless by a new system of fortification. 

Four walls, newly whitewashed, so that he was denied even the 
amusement of perusing the lucubrations of former prisoners, his 
predecessors; a table, serving for his meals; a chair, whose insu- 
lated unity reminded him, that no human being would ever sit 


20 


F I C C I O L A , 


beside hitn there in friendly converse; a trunk for his clothes and 
linen : a little sideboard of painted deal, half worm-eaten, offered a 
singular contrast to the rich mahogany dressing-case, inlaid with 
silver, standing there as the sole representative of his former splen- 
dours. A clean, but narrow bed, window-curtains of blue cloth 
(a mere mockery, for, thanks to the closeness of his prison bars 
and the opposite wall rising at ten feet distance, there was little 
to fear from prying eyes or the importunate radiance of the sun.) 
Such was the complement of furniture allotted to the Count de 
Charney. 

Over his chamber was another, wholly unoccupied ; he had not 
a single companion in that detached portion of the fortress. 

The remainder of his world consisted in a short, massive, wind- 
ing stone staircase, descending into a small paved court, sunk into 
what had been moat, in the earlier days of the citadel, in which 
narrow space hcj was permitted to enjoy air and exercise during 
two hours of the day. Such was the ukase of the commandant of 
Fenestrella. ' 

From this confined spot, however, the prisoner was able to ex- 
tend his glance towards the summits of the mountains, and com- 
mand a view of the vapours rising from the plain; for the walls 
of the ramparts, lowering suddenly at the extremity of the glacis, 
admitted a limited proportion of air and sunshine into the court. 
But once shut up again in his room, his view' was bounded by an 
horizon of solid masonry, and a surmise of the majestic and pic- 
turesque aspect of nature it served to conceal. Charney was well 
aware that to the right rose the fertile hills of Saluces; that to his 
left were developed the last undulations of the valley of Aorta and 
the banks of the Chiara; that before him lay the noble plains of 
Turin; and behind, the mighty chain of Alps, with its adornment 
of rocks, forests, and chasms, from Mount Genevra to Mount Ce- 
nis. But, in spite of this charming vicinage, all he was permitted 
to behold was the misty sky suspended over his head by a frame- 
work of rude masonry; the pavement of the little court, and the 
bars of his prison, through which he might admire the opposite 
wall, adorned with a single small square window, at which he had 
once or twice caught glimpses of a doleful human countenance. 

What a world from which to extract delight and entertainment! 
The unhappy Count w'ore out his patience in the attempt 1 At 
first, he amused himself with scribbling with a morsel of charcoal 
on the walls of his prison the dates of every happy event of his 
childhood ; but from this dispiriting task he desisted, more dis- 
couraged than ever. The demon of scepticism next inspired him 
with evil counsel ; and having framed into fearful sentences the 
axioms of his withering creed, he inscribed them also on his wall, 
between recollections conseprate^l to his sister and mother ! 


P I C C I O L A . 


21 


Still unconsoled, Charney at length made up his mind to fling 
aside his heart-eating cares, adopt, by anticipation, all the puerili- 
ties and brutalization which result from the prolongation of soli- 
tary confinement. The philosopher attempted to find amusement 
in unravelling silk or linen ; in making flageolets of straw, and 
building ships of walnut-shells. The man of genius constructed 
whistles, boxes, and baskets, of kernels; chains and musical in- 
struments, with the springs of his braces; nay, for a time, he took 
delight in these absurdities ; then, with a sudden movement of dis- 
gust, trampled them, one by one, under his feet ! 

To vary his employment, Charney began to carve a thousand 
fanciful designs upon his wooden table! No schoolboy ever mu- 
tilated his desk by such attempts at arabesque, both in relief and 
intaglio, as tasked his patience and address. The celebrated portal 
of the church of Candebee, and the pulpit and palm trees of St. 
Gudula at Brussels, are not adorned with a greater variety of 
figures. There were houses upon houses, fishes upon trees, men 
taller than steeples, boats upon roofs, carriages upon water, dwarf 
pyramids, and flies of gigantic stature, — horizontal, vertical, 
oblique, topsy-turvy, upside down, pell-mell, a chaos of hiero- 
glyphics, in which he tried to discover a sense symbolical, an ac- 
cidental intention, an occult design ; for it was no great effort on 
the part of one who had so much faith in the power of chance, to 
expect the developement of an epic poem in the sculptures on his 
table, or a design of Raphael in the veins of his box-wood snuff- 
box. 

It was the delight of his ingenuity to multiply difficulties for 
conquest, problems for solution, enigmas for divination ; but even 
in the midst of these recreations, ennui, the formidable enemy, 
again surprised the captive. 

The man whose face he had noticed at the grated window, might 
have afforded him food for conjecture, had he not seemed to avoid 
the observation of the Count, by retiring the moment Charney 
made his appearance; in consequence of which, he conceived an 
abhorrence of the recluse. Such was his opinion of the human 
species, that the stranger’s desire of concealment convinced him 
he was a spy, employed to watch the movements of the prisoners, 
or, perhaps, some former enemy, exulting over his humiliation. 

On interrogating the gaoler, however, this last supposition was 
set at rest. 

“ ’Tis an Italian,” said Ludovico, the turnkey. “ A good soul, — 
and, what is more, a good Christian ; for I often find him at his 
devotions.” 

Charney shrugged his shoulders : “ And what may be the cause, 
pray, of his retention?” said he. 

“ He attempted to assassinate the Emperor.” 


22 


F I C C I O L A . 


“Is he, then, a patriot?”. 

“A patriot! Rubbish! Not he. But the poor soul liad once 
a son and daughter: and now he has only a daughter. The son 
was killed in Germany. A cannon-ball broke a tooth for him. 
Povero Jigliuolo!” 

“ It was a paroxysm of selfishness, then, which moved this old 
man to become an assassin?” 

“You have never been a father. Signor Conte!” replied the 
gaoler. “ Cristo Santo! if my Antonio, who is still a babe, were 
to eat his first mouthful for the good of this empire of the French 

(which is a bantling of his own age, or thereabouts,) I ’d «oon 

But basta! I’ve no mind to take up my lodging at Fenestrella, 
except as it may be with the keys at my girdle or under my pil- 
low.” 

“ And how does this fierce conspirator amuse himself in pri- 
son?” persisted Charney. 

“ Catching flies!” replied the gaoler, with an ironical wink 

Instead of detesting his brother in misfortune, Charney now be- 
gan to despise him. “A madman, then?” he demanded. 

“ Perche pazzo, Sigtior Conte? Though you are the last comer, 
you excel him already in the art of hacking a table into devices. 
Pazienza !” 

In defiance of the sneer conveyed in the gaoler’s remark, Char- 
ney soon resumed his manual labours, and the interpretations of 
his hieroglyphics; but, alas! only to experience anew their insuf- 
ficiency as a kill-time. His first winter had expired in weariness 
and discontent: when, by the mercy of Heaven, an unexpected 
object of interest was assigned him. 




PICCIOLA. 


23 


CHAPTER III. 

One day, Charney was breathing the fresh air in the little court 
of the fortress, at the accustomed hour, his head declining, his eyes 
downcast, his arms crossed behind him, pacing with slow and 
measured steps, as if his deliberation tended to enlarge the pre- 
cincts of his dominion. 

Spring was breaking. A milder air breathing around, tanta- 
lized him with a vain inclination to enjoy the season of liberty, as 
master of his time and territory. He was proceeding to number, 
one by one, the stones paving the court-yard, (doubtless to verify 
the accuracy of former calculations, — for it was by no means the 
first time they had put his arithmetic to the test,) when he per- 
ceived a small mound of earth rising between two stones of the 
pavement, cleft slightly at its summit. 

The Count stopped short — his heart beat hurriedly without any 
rational grounds for emotion, except that every trivial incident 
affords matter of hope or fear to a captive. In the most indiffer- 
ent objects, in the most unimportant events, the prisoner discerns 
traces of a mysterious project for his deliverance. 

Who could decide that this trifling irregularity on the surface 
might not indicate important operations underground? Subter- 
raneous issues might have been secretly constructed, and the earth 
be about to open and afford him egress towards the mountains ! 
Perhaps his former friends and accomplices had been sapping and 
mining, to procure access to his dungeon, and restore him to light 
and liberty ! 

He listened ! he fancied he could detect the low murmur of a 
subterraneous sound. He raised his head, and the loud and rapid 
clang of the tocsin saluted his ear. The ramparts were echoing 
with the prolonged roll of drums, like the call to arms in time of 
war. He started — he passed his trembling hand over his forehead, 
on which cold dews of intense agitation were already rising. Is 
his liberation at hand? Is France submitted to the domination 
of a new ruler ? 

The illusion of the captive vanished as it came. Reflection 
soon restored him to reason. He no longer possesses accomplices 
— he never possessed friends!, — Again he lends a listening ear, 
and the same noises recur; but they mislead his mind no longer. 
The supposed tocsin is only the church bell which he has been 
accustomed to hear daily at the same hour, and the drums, the 
usual evening signal for retreat to quarters. With a bitter smile, 
Charney begins to compassionate his own folly, which could mis- 


24 


PICCIOLA 


take the insignificant labours of some insect or reptile, some wan- 
dering mole or field-mouse, for the result of human fidelity, or the. 
subversion of a mighty empire. 



Resolved, however, to bring the matter to the test, Charney, 
bending over the little hillock, gently removed the earth from its 
summit ; when he had the mortification to perceive that the wild 
though momentary emotion by which he had been overcome, was 
not produced by so much as the labours of an animal armed with 
teeth and claws ! but by the efforts of a feeble plant to pierce the 
soil — a pale and sickly scatterling of vegetation. Deeply vexed, 
he was about to crush with his heel the miserable weed, when a 


P I C Cl OLA. 


25 


rpfieshing breeze, laden with the sweets of some bower of honey- 
suckles, or syringas, swept past, as if to intercede for mercy to- 
wards the poor plant, which might perhaps hereafter reward him 
with its flowers and fragrance. 

A new conjecture conspired to suspend his act of vengeance. 
How has this tender plant, so soft and fragile as to be crushed 
with a touch, contrived to pierce and cleave asunder the earth, 
dried and hardened into a mass by the sun, daily trodden down by 
his own footsteps, and all but cemented by the flags of granite be- 
tween which it was enclosed ? On stooping again to examine the 
matter with more attention, he observed at the extremity of the 
plant a sort of fleshy valve affording protection to its first and ten- 
derest leaves, from the injurious contact of any hard bodies they 
might have to encounter in penetrating the earthy crust in search 
of light and air. 

“ This, then, is the secret?” cried he, already interested in his 
discovery. “ Nature has imparted strength to the vegetable germ, 
even as the unfledged bird which is able to break asunder with its 
beak the egg-shell in which it is imprisoned ; happier than myself 
— in possession of unalienable instruments to secure its libera- 
tion 1” And after gazing another minute on the inoffensive plant, 
he lost all inclination for its destruction. 

On resuming his walk the next day, with wide and careless 
steps, Charney was on the point of setting his foot on it, from in- 
advertence; but luckily recoiled in time. Amused to find himself 
interested in the preservation of a weed, he paused to take note 
of its progress. The plant was strangely grown ; and the free 
light of day had already effaced the pale and sickly complexion of 
the preceding day. Charney was struck by the power inherent in 
vegetables to absorb rays of light, and, fortified by the nourish- 
ment, borrow, as it were, from the prism, the very colours predes- 
tined to distinguish its various parts of organization. 

“ The leaves,” thought he, “ will probably imbibe a hue differ- 
ent from that of the stem. And the flowers? what colour, I won- 
der, will be the flowers ? Nourished by the same sap as the green 
leaves and stem, how do they manage to acquire, from the influ- 
ence of the sun, their variegations of azure, pink, or scarlet? — 
For already their hue is appointed. In spite of the confusion and 
disorder of all human affairs, matter, blind as it is, marches with 
admirable regularity : still blindly, however ! for lo, the fleshy 
lobes which served to facilitate for the plant its progress through 
the soil, though now useless, are feeding their superfluous sub- 
stance at its expense, and weighing upon its slender stalk!” 

But, even as he spoke, daylight became obscured. A chilly 
spring evening, threatening a frosty night, was setting in; and the 
two lobes, gradually rising, seemed to reproach him with his ob- 
3 


‘26 


PICC lOL A. 


jections, by the practical argument of enclosing the still tender 
foliage, which they secured from the attacks of insects or the in- 
clemency of the weather, by the screen of their protecting wings. 

The man of science was better able to comprehend this mute 
answer to his cavilling, because the external surface of the vege- 
table bivalve had been injured the preceding night by a snail, 
v^hose slimy trace was left upon the verdure of the cotyledon. 

This curious colloquy between action and cogitation, between 
the plant and the philosopher, was not yet at an end. Charney 
was too full of metaphysical disquisition to allow himself to be 
vanquished by a good argument. 

“ ’Tis all very well !” cried he. “ In this instance, as in others, 
a fortunate coincidence of circumstances has favoured the deve- 
lopement of incomplete creation. It was the inherent qualification 
of the nature of the plant to be born with a lever in order to up- 
raise the earth, and a buckler to shelter its tender head : without 
which it must have perished in the germ, like myriads of individu- 
als of its species which proved incapable of accomplishing their 
destinies. How can one guess the number of unsuccessful efforts 
which nature may have made, ere she perfected a single subject 
sufficiently organized ! A blind man may sometimes shoot home; 
but how many uncounted arrows must be lost before he attains 
the mark? For millions of forgotten centuries, matter has been 
triturating between negative and positive attraction. How then 
can one wonder that chance should sometimes produce coinci- 
dence? This fleshy screen serves to shelter the early leaves. 
Granted ! But will it enlarge its dimensions to contain the rest 
as they are put forth, and defend them from cold and insects? 
No, no; no evidence of the calculating of a presiding Providence! 
A lucky chance is the alpha and omega of the universe !” 

Able logician! — profound reasoner ! listen, and Nature shall 
find a thousand arguments to silence your presumption ! Deign 
only to fix your inquiring eyes upon this feeble plant, which the 
munificence of Heaven has called into existence between the 
stones of your prison ! You are so far right that the cotyledon 
will not expand so as to cover with its protecting wings the future 
progress of the plant. Already withering, they will eventually fall 
and decay. But they will suffice to accomplish the purpose of 
nature. So long as the northern wind drives down from the Alps 
their heavy fogs or sprinkling of sleet, the new leaves will find a 
retreat impermeable to the chilly air, caulked with resinous or 
viscous matter, and expanding or closing according to the impulse 
of the weather ; finally distended by a propitious atmosphere, the 
leaflets will emerge clinging to each other for mutual support, 
clothed with a furry covering of down to secure them against the 
fatal influence of atmospheric changes. Did ever mother watch 


PIC CIOL A. 


27 


more tenderly over the preservation of a child ? Such are the phe- 
nomena, Sir Count, which you might long ago’ have learned to 
admire, had you descended from the flighty regions of human sci- 
ence, to study the humble though majestic works of God ! The 
deeper your researches, the more positive had been your convic- 
tion ; for where dangers abound, know that the protection of the 
Providence which you deny is vouchsafed a thousand and a thou- 
sand fold in pity to the blindness of mankind ! 

In the weariness of captivity, Charney was soon satisfied to oc- 
cupy his idle hours by directing his attention to the transform- 
ations of the plant. But when he attempted to contend with it 
in argument, the answers of the vegetable logician were too much 
for him. 

“ To what purpose these stiff bristles, disfiguring a slender 
stem?” demanded the Count. And the following morning he 
found them covered with rime: thanks to their defence, the ten- 
der bark had been secured from all contact with the frost. 

“ To what purpose, for the summer season, this winter garment 
of wool and down?” he again inquired. And when the summer 
season really breathed upon the plant, he found the new shoots 
array themselves in their light spring clothing; the downy vest- 
ments, now superfluous, being laid aside. 

“ Storms may be still impending !” cried Charney, with a bitter 
smile ; “ and how will these slender and flexile shoots resist the 
cutting hail, the driving wind?” But when the stormy rain arose, 
and the winds blew, the slender plant, yielding to their intempe- 
rance, replied to the sneers of the Count by prudent prostration. 
Against the hail, it fortified itself by a new manoeuvre; the leaves, 
rapidly uprising, adhered to the stalks for protection ; presenting 
to the attacks of the enemy the strong and prominent nerves of 
their inferior surface; and union, as usual, produced strength. 
Firmly closed together, they defied the pelting shower ; and the 
plant remained master of the field; not, however, without having 
experienced wounds and contusions, which, as the leaves expanded 
in the returning sunshine, were speedily cicatrized by its conge- 
nial warmth. 

“Is chance endowed then with intelligence?” cried Charney. 
“ Must we admit matter to be spiritualized, or humiliate the world 
of intelligence into materialism?” 

Still, though self-convicted, he could not refrain from interro- 
gating his mute instructress. He delighted in watching, day by 
day, her spontaneous metamorphoses. Often, after having exam- 
ined her progress, he found himself gradually absorbed in reveries 
of a more cheering nature than those to which he had been of late 
accustomed. He tried to prolong the softened mood of mind by 
loitering in the court beside the plant; and one day, while thus 


28 


PICCIOLA. 


employed, he happened to raise his eyes towards the grated win- 
dow, and saw the fly-catcher observing him. The colour rose to 
his cheek, as if the spy could penetrate the subject of his medita- 
tions; but a smile soon chased away the blush. He no longer 
presumed to despise his comrade in misfortune. He, too, had been 
engaged in contemplating one of the simplest creations of nature; 
and had derived comfort from the study. 

“ How do I know,” argued Charney, “ that the Italian may not 
have discovered as many marvels in a fly, as I in a nameless 
vegetable?” 

The first object that saluted him on his returning to his cham- 
ber, after this admission, was the following sentence, inscribed by 
his own hand upon the wall, a few months before: — 

“ Chance, though blind, is the sole author of the crea- 
tion.” 

Seizing a piece of charcoal, Charney instantly qualified the as- 
sertion, by the addition of a single word — “ Perhaps.” 


CHAPTER IV. 

Charney had long ceased to find amusement in these gratuitous 
mural inscriptions; and if he still occasionally played the sculptor 
with his wooden table, his efforts produced nothing now but ger- 
minating plants; each protected by a cotyledon, or a sprig of 
foliage, whose leaves were delicately serrated and prominently 
nerved. The greater portion of the time assigned him for exer- 
cise was spent in contemplation of his plant, — in examining and 
reasoning upon its developement. Even after his return to his 
chamber, he often watched the little solitary through his prison- 
bars. It had become his whim, his bauble, his hobby ; — perhaps 
only to be discarded like other preceding favourites ! 

One morning, as he stood at the window, he observed the gaoler, 
who was rapidly traversing the court-yard, pass so close to it that 
the stem seemed on the point of being crushed under his footsteps; 
and Charney actually shuddered ! When Ludovico arrived as 
usual with his breakfast, the Count longed to entreat the man 
would be careful in sparing the solitary ornament of his walk; but 
he found some difficulty in phrasing so puerile an entreaty. Per- 
haps the Fenestrella system of prison discipline might enforce the 
clearing of the court from weeds, or other vegetation. It might 
be a favour he was about to request, and the Count possessed no 
worldly means for the requital of a sacrifice. Ludovico had 


PICCIOLA. 


29 


^ilready taxed him heavily, in the way of ransom, for the various 
objects with which it was his privilege to furnish the prisoners of 
the fortress. 

Besides, he had scarcely yet exchanged a word with the fellow, 
by whose abrupt manners and character he was disgusted. His 
pride recoiled, too, from placing himself in the same rank with the 
fly-catcher, towards whom Ludovico had acknowledged his con- 
tempt. Then there was the chance of a refusal ! s^Lhe inferior, j 
whose position raises him to temporary consequence, is seldom 
sufficiently master of himself to bear his faculties meekly, incapa- 
ble of understanding that indulgence is a proof of power^; The 
Count felt that it would be insupportable to him to find himself^ 
repulsed by a turnkey. 

At length, after innumerable oratorical precautions, and the 
exercise of all his insight into the foibles of human nature, 
Charney commenced a discourse, logically preconcocted, in hopes 
to obtain his end without the sacrifice of his dignity, — or, to speak 
more correctly, of his pride. 

He began by accosting the gaoler in Italian; by way of propi- 
tiating his natural prejudices, and calling up early associations. 
He inquired after Ludovico’s boy, little Antonio; and, having 
caused this tender string to vibrate, took from his dressing-box a 
small gilt goblet, and charged him to present it to the child ! 

Ludovico declined the gift, but refused it with a smile ; and 
Charney, though somewhat discountenanced, resolved to perse- 
vere. With adroit circumlocution, he observed, “ I am aware tha 
a toy, a rattle, u. flower, would be a present better suited to Anto- 
nio’s age ; but you can sell the goblet, and procure those triffes in 
abundance with the price.” And, lo! apropos of flowers, the 
Count embarked at once into his subject. 

Patriotism, paternal love, personal interest, every influential 
motive of human action, were thus put in motion in order to ac- 
complish the preservation of a plant ! Charney could scarcely 
have done more for his own. Judge whether it had ingratiated 
itself into his affections! 

Signor Conte!” replied Ludovico, at the conclusion of the 
harangue, riprendi sua nacchera indorata! Were this pretty 
bauble missing from your toilet-case, its companions might fret 
after it 1 At three months old, my bantling has scarce wit 
enough to drink out of a goblet ; and with respect to your gilly- 
flower — ” 

“ /s it a gilly-flower ?” inquired Charney, with eagerness. 

Sac a papious ! how should I know ? All flowers are more or 
less gilly-flowers ! But as to sparing the life of yours, eccellenza, 
methinks the request comes late in the day. My boot would have 
11 * 


30 


PIC C 10 LA. 


been better acquainted with it long ago, had I not perceived your 
partiality for the poor weed !” 

“ Oh ! as to rny partiality,” interrupted Charney, “ I beg to as- 
.sure you — ” 

“ Ta, ta, ta, ta ! What need of assurance,” cried Ludovico. 
“ I know whereabouts you are better than you do. Men must 
have something to love ; and state prisoners have small choice 
allowed them in their whims. Why, among my boarders here, 
Signor Conte, (most of whom were grand gentry, and great wise- 
acres in their day, for ’tis not the small fry they send into harbour 
at Fenestrella,) you ’d be surprised at what little cost they manage 
to divert themselves? One catches flies, — no harm in that; an- 
other — ” and Ludovico winked knowingly, to signify the applica- 
tion — “ another chops a solid deal table into chips, without con- 
sidering how far I may be responsible for its preservation.” The 
Count vainly tried to interpose a word : Ludovico went on ; “ some 
amiise themselves with rearing linnets and goldfinches; otliers have 
a fancy for white mice. For my part, poor souls, I have so much 
respect for their pets, that I had a fine Angora cat of my own, 
with long white silken hair, you ’d have sworn ’twas a muff when 
’twas asleep ! — a cat that my wife doated on, to say nothing of my- 
self. Well, I gave it away, lest the creature should take a fancy 
to some of their favourites. All the cats in the creation ought 
not to weigh against so much as a mouse belonging to a cap- 
tive !” 

“ Well thought, well expressed, my worthy friend !” cried Char- 
ney, piqued at the inference which degraded him to the level of 
such wretched predilections. “But know that this plant is some- 
thing more to me than a kill-time.” 

“What signifies? so it serves but to recall to your mind the 
green tree under which your mother hushed your infancy to rest, 
per Bacco ! I give it leave to overshadow half the court. My 
instructions say nothing about weeding or hoeing, so e’en let it 
grow and welcome ! Were it to turn out a tree, indeed, so as to 
assist you in escalading the walls, the case were different ! But 
there is time before us to look after the business — eh! eccellenzaV' 
said the gaoler, with a coarse laugh. “ Not that you hav’n’t my 
best wishes for the recovery of the free use of your legs and lungs; 
but all must come in course of time, and the regular way. For 
if you were to make an attempt at escape — ” 

“ Weill and if I were?” said Charney, with a smile. 

“ Thunder and hail ! — you’d find Ludovico a stout obstacle in 
your way! I’d order the sentry to fire at you, with as little scru- 
ple as at a rabbit ! Such are my instructions ! But as to doing 
mischief to a poor harmless gilly-flower, I look upon that man they 
tell of who killed the pet-spider of the prisoner under his cliarge. 


P IC C I O L A. 31 

as a wretch not worthy to be a gaoler ! 'Twas a base action, ec- 
ccllenza, — nay, a crime !” 

Charney felt amazed and touched by the discovery of so much 
sensibility on the part of his gaoler. But now that he had begun 
to entertain an esteem for the man, his vanity rendered it doubly 
essential to assign a rational motive for his passion. 



Accept my thanks, good Ludovico,” said he, ‘‘ for your good- 
will. I own that the plant in question affords me scope for a va- 
riety of scientific observations; I am fond of studying its physio- 
logical phenomena.” Then, (as Ludovico’s vague nodding of the 
he'ad convinced him that the poor fellow understood not a syllable 
l\e was saying,) he added, “ more particularly as the class to which 


32 


PIC CIOL A. 


it belongs possesses medicinal qualities, highly favourable to a dis- 
order to which I am subject.” 

A falsehood from the lips of the noble Count de Charney ! and 
merely to evade the contempt of a gaoler, who, for the moment, 
represented the whole human species in the eyes of the captive. 

“ Indeed !” cried Ludovico; “ then all I have to say is, that if 
the poor thing is so serviceable to you, you are not so grateful to 
It as you ought to be. If I hadn’t been at the pains of watering 
It for you now and then, on my way hither with your meals, la 
povera picciola would have died of thirst. Addio, Signor Conte!” 

“ One moment, my good friend,” exclaimed Charney, more, and 
more amazed to discover such delicacy of mind so roughly en- 
closed, and repentant at having so long mistaken the .character of 
his gaoler. “ Since you have interested yourself in my pursuits, 
and without vaunting your services, accept, I entreat you, this 
small memento of my gratitude ! Should better times await me, 
I will not forget you !” 

And once more he tendered the goblet; which this time Ludo- 
vico examined with a sort of vague curiosity. 

“ Gratitude, for what, Signor Conte ?” said he. “ A plant wants 
nothing but a sprinkling of water; and one might furnish a whole 
parterre of them in their cups, without ruining oneself at the ta- 
vern. If la picciola diverts you from your cares, and provides 
you with a specific, enough said, and God speed her growth.” 

And having crossed the room, he quietly replaced the goblet in 
its compartment of the dressing-box. 

Charney, rushing towards Ludovico, now offered him his hand. 

“ No, no !” exclaimed the gaoler, assuming an attitude of re- 
spect and constraint. “ Hands are to be shaken only between 
equals and friends.” 

“ Be my friend, then, Ludovico!” cried the Count. 

“ No, ccceZZcn 2 :«, no 1” replied the turnkey. “ A gaoler must 
be on his guard, in order to perform his duties like a man of con- 
science, to-day, to-morrow, and every day of the week. If you 
were my friend, according to my notions of the word, how should 
I be abl6 to call out to the sentinel. Fire! if I saw you swimming 
across the moat? I am fated to remain your keeper, gaoler, e di^ 
votissimo servo !” 


PICCIOLA. 


33 


CHAPTER V. 

In the course of his solitary meditations, after Ludovico’s de- 
parture, Charney was compelled to admit that, in his relations 
with the gaoler, the man of genius and education had fallen below 
the level of the man of the people. To what wretched subterfuges 
had he descended, in order to practise upon the feelings of this 
kind-hearted and simple being! He had even soiled his noble 
lips with an untruth. 

He was gtartled to discover the services recently rendered by 
Ludovico to the pover a picciola” The boor, the gaoler, mo- 
rose only when invited to a breach of duty, had actually watched 
him in secret, not to exult over his weakness, but to render him a 
service ; nay, by his obstinate disinterestedness, the man persisted 
in imposing an obligation on the Count de Charney. 

In his walk next morning, the Count hastened to share, with 
his little favourite, the cruise of water allotted to his use ; not only 
watering the roots, but sprinkling the plant itself, to refresh its 
leaves from dust or insects. While thus occupied, the sky became 
darkened by a thunder-cloud, suspended like a black dome over 
the turrets of the fortress. Large rain-drops began to fall : and 
Charney was about to take refuge in his room, when a few hail- 
stones mingling with the rain, pattered down on the pavement of 
the court. La povera picciola seemed on the point of being up- 
rooted by the whirlwind which accompanied the storm. Her 
dishevelled branches and leaves shrinking up towards their stalks 
for protection against the chilling shower, trembled with every 
driving blast of wind that howled, as if in triumph, through the 
court. 

Charney paused. Recalling to mind the reproaches of Ludo- 
vico, he looked eagerly around for some object to defend his plant 
from the storm; but nothing could be seen. The hailstones came 
rattling down with redoubled force, threatening destruction to its 
tender stem; and, notwithstanding Charney’s experience of its 
power of resistance against such attacks, he grew uneasy for its 
safety. With an effort of tenderness, worthy of a father or a lover, 
he stationed himself between his protegee and the wind, bending 
over her, to secure her from the hail ; and, breathless with his 
struggles against the violence of the storm, devoted himself, like 
a martyr, to the defence of la picciola. 

At length the hurricane subsided. But might not a recurrence 
of the mischief bring destruction to his favourite at some moment 
when bolts and bars divided her from her protector] He had 


34 


PICCIOLA. 


already found cause to tremble for her safety, when the wife of 
Ludovico, accompanied by a huge mastiff, one of the guardians 
of the prison, occasionally traversed the yard ; for a single stroke 
with its paw, or a snap of its mouth, might have annihilated the 
darling of the philosophical captive; and Charney accordingly 
passed the remainder of the day in concocting a plan of fortifi- 
cation. 

The moderate portion of wood allowed him for fuel, scarcely 
supplied his wants in a climate whose nights and mornings are so 
chilly, in a chamber debarred from all warmth of sunshine. Yet 
he resolved to sacrifice his comfort to the safety of the plant. He 
promised himself to retire early to rest, and rise later ; by which 
means, after a few days of self-denial, he amassed sufficient wood 
for his purpose. 

“Glad to see you have more fuel than you require,” cried Lu- 
dovico, on noticing the little stock. “ Shall I clear the room for 
you of all this lumber?” 

“Not for the world,” replied Charney, with a smile. “I am 
hoarding it to build a palace for my lady-love.” 

The gaoler gave a knowing wink, which signified, however, that 
he understood not a word about the matter. 

Meanwhile, Charney set about splitting and pointing the up- 
rights of his bastions; and carefully laid aside the osier bands 
which served to tie up his daily fagots. He next tore from his 
trunk its lining of coarse cloth; out of which he drew the strong- 
est threads: and his materials thus prepared, he commenced his 
operations the moment the rules of the prison and the exactitude 
of the gaoler would admit. He surrounded his plant with pali- 
sades of unequal height, carefully inserted between the stones of 
the pavement, and secured at the base by a cement of earth, labo- 
riously collected from the interstices, and mortar and saltpetre se- 
cretly abstracted from the ancient turret-walls around him. When 
the labours of the carpenter and mason were achieved, he began 
to interlace his scaffolding at intervals with split osiers, to screen 
la picciola from the shock of exterior objects. 

The completion of his work acquired, during its progress, new 
importance in his eyes, from the opposition of Ludovico. The 
gaoler shook his head and grumbled when first he noticed the 
undertaking. But before the close of the performance the kind- 
hearted fellow withdrew his disapprobation ; nay, would even 
smoke his pipe, leaning against the wicket of the courtyard, and 
watching, with a smile, the efforts of the unpractised mechanic; 
interrupting himself in the enjoyment of his favourite recreation, 
however, to favour Charney with occasional counsels, the result 
of his own experience. 

The work progressed rapidly; but, to render it perfect, the 


PICCIOL A. 


35 


Count was under the necessity of sacrificing a poition of his scanty 
bedding; purloining handfuls of straw from his palliasse, in order 
to band up the interstices of his basket-work, as a shelter against 
the mountain wind, and the fierceness of the meridian sun, which 
in summer would be reflected from the flint of the adjacent wall. 

One evening, a sudden breeze arose, after Charney had been 
locked in for the night, — and the yard was quickly strewn with 
scattered straws and slips of osier, which had not been worked in 
with sufficient solidity. Charney promised himself to counteract 
next day the ill effects of his carelessness; but on reaching the 
court at the usual hour, he found that all the mischief had been 
neatly repaired : a hand more expert than his own had replaced 
the matting and palisades. It was not difficult to guess to whom 
he was indebted for this friendly interposition. Meanwhile, thanks 
to her friend , — thanks to her friends^ the plant was now secured 
by solid ramparts and roofing : and Charney, attaching himself, 
according to the common frailty of human nature, more tenderly 
to the object on which he was conferring obligation, had the satis- 
faction to see the plant expand with redoubled powers, and ac- 
quire new beauties every hour. It was a matter of deep interest 
to observe the progress of its consolidation. The herbaceous stem 
was now acquiring ligneous consistency. A glossy bark began to 
surround the fragile stalk ; and already, the gratified proprietor of 
this gratuitous treasure entertained eager hopes of the appearance 
of flowers among its leaves. The man of paralysed nerves, — the 
man of frost-bound feelings, had at length found something to wish 
for! The action of his lofty intellect was at last concentrated 
into adoration of an herb of the field. Even as the celebrated 
Quaker, John Bartram, resolved, after studying for hours the or- 
ganization of a violet, to apply his powers of mind to the analysis 
of the vegetable kingdom, and eventually acquired high eminence 
among the masters of botanical science, Charney became a natu- 
ral philosopher. 

A learned pundit of Malabar is said to have lost his reason in 
attempting to expound the phenomena of the sensitive plant. But 
the Count de Charney seemed likely to be restored to the use of 
his by studies of a similar nature ; and, sane or insane, he had at 
least already extracted from his plant an arcanum sufficiently po- 
tent to dispel the weariness of ennui, and enlarge the limit of his 
captivity. 

“If it would but flower!’’ — he frequently exclaimed, “what a 
delight to hail the opening of its first blossom ! a blossom whose 
beauty, whose fragrance, will be developed for the sole enjoyment 
of my eager senses. What will be its colour, I wonder ! what the 
form of its petals? — time will show ! Perhaps they may afford 
new premises for conjecture — new problems for solution. Perhaps 


36 


PICCIOL A. 


the conceited gipsy will offer a new challenge to my understand- 
ing? So much the better! Let my little adversary arm herself 
with all her powers of argument. I will not prejudge the case. 
Perhaps, when thus complete, the secret of her mysterious na- 
ture will be apparent? How I long for the moment! — Bloom, 
picciola ! bloom — and reveal yourself in all your beauty to him to 
whom you are indebted for the preservation of your life!” 

“ Picciola!” — Such is the name, then, which, borrowed from 
the lips of Ludovico, Charney has involuntarily bestowed upon his 
favourite! — “Picciola!” la povera picciola, was the designation 
60 tenderly appropriated by the gaoler to the poor little thing which 
Charney’s neglect had almost allowed to perish. 

“ Picciola !” murmured the solitary captive, when every morn- 
ing he carefully searched its already tufted foliage for indications 
of inflorescence ; “ when will these wayward flowers make their 
appearance !” The Count seemed to experience pleasure in the 
mere pronunciation of a name uniting in his mind the images of 
the two objects which peopled his solitude; — his gaoler and his 
plant ! 

Returning one morning to the accustomed spot, and, as usual, 
interrogating Picciola branch by branch, leaf by leaf, his eyes 
were suddenly attracted towards a shoot of unusual form, gracing 
the principal stem of the plant. He felt the beatings of his heart 
accelerated, and, ashamed of his weakness, the colour rose to his 
cheek, as he stooped for re-examination of the event. The spheri- 
cal shape of the excrescence which presented itself, green, bristly, 
and imbricated with glossy scales, like the slates of a rounded 
dome surmounting an elegant kiosk, announced a bud! — Eureka! 
— A flower must be at hand ! 


CHAPTER VI. 

The fly-catcher, who occasionally made his appearance at his 
grated window, seemed to take delight in watching the assiduities 
of Charney towards his favourite! Pie had observed the Count 
compose his cement, weave his osier-work, — erect his palisades ; 
and, admonished by his own long captivity of the moral influence 
of such pursuits, readily conjectured that a whole system of phi- 
losophy was developing itself in the mind of his fellow-prisoner. 

One memorable day, a new face made its appearance at the 
window, — a female face, — fair, and fresh, and young. The stranger 
was a girl, whose demeanour apneared at once timid and lively ; 


PIC Cl OLA. 


37 


modesty regulated the movements of her well-turned head, and the 
brilliancy of her animated eyes, whose glances were veiled by long 
silken eyelashes of raven darkness. As she stood behind the 
heavy grating, on which her fair hand bent for support, her brow 
inclining in the shade as if in a meditative mood, she might have 
stood for a chaste personification of the nymph Captivity. But 
when her brow was uplifted, and the joyous light of day fell on 
her lovely countenance, the harmony and serenity of her features, 
her delicate but brilliant complexion, proclaimed that it was in the 
free air of liberty she had been nurtured, not under the dispiriting 
influence of the bolts and bars of a dungeon. She was, perhaps, 
one of those tutelary angels of charity, whose lives are passed in 
soothing the sick and solacing the captive? — No! — the instinct 
which brought the fair stranger to Fenestrella was still more puis- 
sant, — even that of filial duty. Only daughter to Girardi the fly- 
catcher, — Teresa had abandoned the gay promenades and festivi- 
ties of Turin, and the banks of the Doria-Riparia, to inhabit the 
cheerless town of Fenestrella, not that her residence near the 
fortress afforded free access to her father : for some time, she 
found it impossible to obtain even a momentary interview with the 
prisoner. But to breathe the same air with him, — and think of 
him nearer to herself, was some solace to her affliction. This was 
her first time of admittance into the long-interdicted citadel; and 
such is the origin of the delight which Charney sees beaming in 
her eyes, and the colour which he observes mantling on her cheek. 
Restored to the arms of her father, Teresa Girardi has indeed a 
right to look gay, and glad, and lovely 1 

It was a sentiment of curiosity which attracted her to the win- 
dow; — a feeling of interest soon attaches her to the spot. The 
noble prisoner and his occupation excite her attention ; but find- 
ing herself noticed in her turn, she tries to recede from observa- 
tion, as if convicted of unbecoming boldness. Teresa has nothing 
to fear ! The Count de Charney, engrossed by Picciola and her 
flower-bud, has not a thought to throw away on any rival beauty ! 

A week afterwards, when the young girl was admitted to pay a 
second visit to her father, she turned her steps, almost uncon- 
sciously, towards the grated window for a glimpse of the prisoner; 
when Girardi, laying his hand upon her arm, exclaimed, “ My 
fellow-prisoner has not been near his plant these three days. The 
poor gentleman must be seriously ill.” 

“Ill; seriously ill!” exclaimed Teresa, with emotion. 

“ I have noticed more than one physician traversing the court : 
and from what I can learn from Ludovico, they agree only to a 
single point; — that the Count de Charney will die.” 

“ Die !” again reiterated the young girl, with dilating eyes, and 
terror rather than pity expressed in her countenance. “ Unhappy 
4 


38 


PICCIOLA. 


man — unhappy man!” Then turning towards her father, with 
terror in her looks, she exclaimed, “ People die, then, in this mise- 
rable place 1” 

“ Yes, the exhalations from the old moats have infected the 
citadel with fever.” 

“ Father, dearest father !” 

She paused — tears were gathering under her eyelids; and Gi- 
rardi, deeply moved by her affliction, extended his hand tenderly 
towards her. Teresa seized and covered it with tears and kisses. 

At that moment Ludovico made his appearance. He came to 
present to the fly-catcher a new captive whom he had just arrested : 
— neither more nor less than a dragon-fly with golden wings, which 
he offered with a triumphant smile to Girardi. The fly-catcher 
smiled, thanked his gaoler, and, unobserved by Ludovico, set the 
insect at liberty ; for it was the twentieth individual of the same 
species, with which he had furnished him during the last few days. 
He profited, however, by the gaoler’s visit to ask tidings of his 
fellow-prisoner. 

‘‘Santissimo mio padrono ! do you fancy I neglect the poor 
fellow?” cried Ludovico, gruffly: “though still under my charge, 
he will soon be under that of St. Peter. I have just been water- 
ing his favourite tree.” 

“ To what purpose — since he is never to behold its blossoms?” 
interrupted the daughter of Girardi. 

“ Perche^ damigdla — perche .?” cried the gaoler, with his accus- 
tomed wink, and sawing the air with a rude hand, of which the 
fore-finger was authoritatively extended ; “ because, though the 
doctors have decided that the sick man has taken an eternal lease 
of the flat of his back, I, Ludovico, gaoler of Fenestrella, am of a 
different opinion. Non lo credo — trondidio ! — I have notions of 
my own on the subject.” 

And turning on his heel he departed ; assuming, as he left the 
room, his big voice of authority, to acquaint the poor girl, that 
only twenty-two minutes remained of the time allotted for her visit 
to her father. And at the appointed minute, to a second, he re- 
turned, and executed his duty of shutting her out. 

The illness of Charney was indeed of a serious nature. One 
evening, after his customary visit to Picciola, an attack of faint- 
ness overpowered him on regaining his room; when, rather than 
summon assistance, he threw himself on the bed, with aching 
brows, and limbs agitated by a nervous shivering. He fancied 
sleep would suffice for his restoration. 

But instead of sleep, came pain and fever ; and on the morrow, 
when he tried to rise, an influence more potent than his will nailed 
him to his pallet. Closing his eyes, the Count resigned himself to 
liis sufferings. In the face of danger, the calmness of the philoso- 


PICCIOLA. 


39 


pher and the pride of the conspirator returned. He would have 
felt dishonoured by a cry or murmur, or an appeal to the aid of those 
by whom he was sequestered from the breathing world; — content- 
ing himself with instructions to Ludovico respecting the care of 
his plant, in case he should be detained in bed, the carcere duro 
which was to render still harder his- original captivity. Physicians 
were called in, and he refused to reply to their questioning. Char- 
iiey seemed to fancy that, no longer master of his existence, he 
was exempted from all care for his life. His health was a portion 
of his confiscated property ; and those who had appropriated all, 
might administer to that among the rest. At first, the doctors 
attempted to overcome his spirit of perversity • but finding the sick 
man obstinately silent, they began to interrogate his disorder in- 
stead of his temper. 

The pathognomonic symptoms to which they addressed them- 
selves, replied in various dialects and opposite senses; for the 
learned doctors invested their questions, each in the language of a 
different system. In the livid hue of Charney’s lips, and the dilated 
pupils of his eyes, one saw symptoms of putrid fever ; another, of 
inflammation of the viscera; while the third inferred, from the 
coloration of the neck and temples, the coldness of the extremi- 
ties, and the rigidity of the countenance, that the disorder was 
paralytic or apoplectic; — protesting that the silence of the patient 
was involuntary, the result of the cerebral congestion. 

Twice did the captain-commandant of the fortress deign to visit 
the bedside of the prisoner. The first time to inquire whether the 
Count had any personal requests to make, — whether he was de- 
sirous of a change of lodging, or fancied the locality had exercised 
an evil influence over his health ; to all which questions Charney 
replied by a negative movement of the head. The second time, he 
came accompanied by a priest. The Count had been given over 
by his doctors as in a hopeless state. His time was expired ; it be- 
came necessary to prepare him for eternity; and the functions of 
the commandant required that he should see the last consolations 
of religion administered to his dying prisoner. 

Of all the duties of the sacerdotal office, the most august, per- 
haps, are those of the ordinary of a prison — of the priest whose 
presence sanctifies the aspect of the gibbet! Yet the scepticism 
of modern times has flung its bitter mockeries in the face of these 
devoted men I “ Hardening their hearts under the cuirass of habit,” 
says the voice of the scorner, “ these officials become utterly in- 
sensible. They forget to weep with the condemned, — they forget 
to weep for them ; and the routine of their professional exhorta- 
tions has neither grace nor inspiration in its forms of prayer.” 

Alas! of what avail were the most varied efforts of eloquence, 
— since the exhortation is fated to reach but once the ear of the 


40 


P I C C I O L A . 


victim ! — Alas ! what need to inveigh against a calling which con- 
demns the pure and virtuous to live surrounded by the profligate 
and hard-hearted, who reply to their words of peace and love, with 
insults, imprecations, and contempt? Like yourselves, these de- 
voted men might have tasted the luxuries and enjoyments of life, 
— instead of braving the contact of the loathsome rags of misery, 
and the infected atmosphere of a dungeon. Endued with human 
sensibilities, and that horror of sights of blood and death inherent 
in all mankind, they compel themselves to behold, year after year, 
the gory knife of the guillotine descend on the neck of the male- 
factor ; and such is the spectacle, such the enjoyment, which men 
of the world denounce as likely to wear down their hearts to 
insensibility ! 

In place of this “ maYi of sorrows and acquainted with grief,” 
devoted for a lapse of years to this dreadful function, in place of 
this humble Christian, who has made himself the comrade of the 
executioner, summon a new priest to the aid of every criminal ! 
It is true, he will be more deeply moved ; it is true, his tears will 
fall more readily ; — but will he be more capable of the task of im- 
parting consolation? His words are rendered incoherent by tears 
and sobs; his mind is distracted by agitation. The emotion of 
which he is so deeply susceptible, will communicate itself to the 
condemned; and enfeeble his courage at the moment of rendering 
up his life a sacrifice to the well-being of society. If the fortitude 
of the new almoner be such a^s enables him to command at once 
composure in his calling, be assured that his heart is a thousand 
times harder than that of the most experienced ordinary. 

. No, — cast not a stone at the prison priest; throw no additional 

obstacles in the way of so painful a duty ! — Deprive not the con- 
demned of their last friend. Let the cross of Christ interpose, as 
he ascends the scaffold, between the eyes of the criminal and the 
fatal axe of the executioner. Let his last looks fall upon an object 
proclaiming, trumpet-tongued, that after the brief vengeance of 
man, comes the everlasting mercy of God ! 

The priest summoned to the bedside of Charney, was fortunately 
worthy of his sacred functions. Fraught with tenderness for sufi 
fering humanity, he read at once, in the obstinate silence of the 
Count, and the withering sentences which disfigured his prison 
walls, how little was to be expected of so imperious and scornful a 
spirit; and satisfied himself with passing the night in prayers by 
his bedside, charitably officiating with Ludovico in the services in- 
dispensable to the sufferer. The Christian priest waited, as for the 
light of dawning day, an auspicious moment to brighten with a ray 
of hope the fearful darkness of incredulity ! 

In the course of that critical night, the blood of the patient de- 
termining to the brain, produced transports of delirium, necessi- 


PIC CIOLA. 


41 


tating restraint to prevent the unfortunate Count from dashing 
himself out of bed. As he struggled in the arms of Ludovico and 
the priest, a thousand incoherent exclamations and wild apostrophes 
burst from his lips; among which the words ^^Picciola, — povera 
Picciola!” were distinctly audible. 

^^Andiamo !” cried Ludovico, the moment he caught the sound. 
“The moment is come! — Yes, yes, the Count is right — the mo- 
ment is come,” he reiterated with impatience. But how was he 
to leave the poor chaplain there alone, exposed to all the violence 
of a madman? “In another hour, it may be too late!” cried Lu- 
dovico. ‘‘Corpo di Dio ! — it will be too late. Blessed Virgin, 
methinks he is growing calmer ! Yes, he droops ! — he closes his 
eyes! — he is sinking to sleep! If at my return he is still alive, 
all ’s well. Hurra ! reverend father, we shall yet preserve him, 
hurra, hurra !” 

And away went Ludovico, satisfied, now the excitement of Char- 
ney’s delirium was appeased, to leave him in the charge of the kind- 
hearted priest. 



42 


PICCIOLA. 


In the chamber of death, lighted by the feeble flame of a flick- 
ering lamp, nothing now was audible but the irregular breathing 
of the dying man, the murmured prayers of the priest, and the 
breezes of the Alps whistling through the grating of the prison- 
window. Twice, indeed, a human voice mingled in these monoto- 
nous sounds : — the “ qui vive?” of the sentinel, as Ludovico passed 
and repassed the postern on his way to his lodge, and back to the 
chamber of the Count. At the expiration of half an hour, the 
chaplain welcomed the return of the gaoler, bearing in his hand a 
cup of steaming liquid. 

Santo Christo! — I had half a mind to kill my dog!” said Lu- 
dovico, as he entered. “ The brute, on seeing me, set up a howl, 
which is a sign of evil portent ! But how have you been going on 
here? Has he moved? No matter! I have brought something 
that will soon set him to rights ! — I have made bold to taste it my- 
self! — bitter, saving your reverence’s presence, as five hundred 
thousand diavoli! Pardon me! mio padre!'' 

But the priest gently put aside the offered cup. 

“After all,” said Ludovico, “ ’tis not the stuff for us. A pint of 
good muscadello, warmed with a slice or two of lemon, is a better 
thing for sitters-up with the sick, — eh! Signore Capcllano? But 
this is the job for the poor Count ; — this will put things in their 
places. He must drink it to the last drop ; for so says the pre- 
scription.” 

And, as he spoke, Ludovico kept pouring the draught from one 
cup to another, and blowing to cool it; till, having reduced it to 
the proper temperature, he forced the half-insensible Count to 
swallow the whole potion, while the chaplain supported his shoulders 
for the effort. Then, covering the patient closely up, they drew 
together the curtains of the bed. 

“ We shall soon see the effects,” observed the jailer to his com- 
panion. “ I don’t stir from hence till all is right. My birds are 
safe locked in their cages; my wife has got the babe to keep her 
company. What say you. Signore Capellano?" 

And Ludovico’s garrulity having been silenced by the almoner, 
by a motion of the hand, tlie poor fellow stationed himself in sir 
lence at the foot of the bed, with his eyes fixed on the dying man ; 
retaining his very breath in the anxiousness of his watchfulness for 
the event. At length, perceiving no sign of change in the Count, 
he grew uneasy. Apprehensive of having accelerated the last fatal 
change, he started up, and began pacing the room, snapping his 
fingers, and addressing menacing gestures to the cup, which was 
still standing on the table. 

Suddenly he stopped short, and fixed his eyes on the livid face 
of Charney. 

“ I have been the death of him,” cried he, accompanying the 


PICGIOLA. 43 

apostrophe with a tremendous oath. “ I have certainly been the 
death of him.” 

The chaplain raised his head, when Ludovico, unappalled by 
his air of consternation, began anew to pace the room, to stamp, 
to swear, to snap his fingers with all the energy of Italian gesticu- 
lation, till, tired out by his own impetuosity, he threw himself on 
his knees beside the priest, hiding his head in the bedclothes, and 
murmuring his mca culpa, till, in the midst of a paternoster, he 
fell asleep. 

At dawn of day, the chaplain was still praying, and Ludovico 
still snoring; when a burning hand, placed upon the forehead of 
the latter, suddenly roused him from his slumbers. 

“Give me some drink,” murmured the faint voice of Charney. 

And, at the sound of a voice which he had supposed to beTor 
ever silenced, Ludovico opened his eyes wide with stupefaction to 
fix them on the Count, upon whose face and limbs the moisture of 
an auspicious effort of nature was perceptible. The fever was 
yielding to the effect of the powerful sudorific administered by Lu- 
dovico; and the senses of Charney being now restored, he pro- 
ceeded to give rational directions to the gaoler, concerning the 
mode of treatment to be adopted ; then, turning towards the 
priest, still humbly stationed on his knees at the bedside, he ob- 
served, — 

“I am not yet dead, sir? Should I recover, (as I have every 
hope of doing,) present the compliments of the Count de Charney 
to his trio of doctors, and tell them I dispense with their further 
visits, and the blunders of a science as idle and deceptions as all 
the rest. I overheard enough of their consultations to know that 
I am indebted to chance alone for my recovery.” 

“Chance!” faltered the priest — “chance!” — And, having 
raised his eyes to Heaven in token of compassion, they fell upon 
the fatal inscription on the wall — 

“ Chance, though blind, is the sole author of the cre- 
ation.” 

The chaplain paused, after perusing this frightful sentiment; 
then, having gathered breath by a deep and painful inspiration, he 
added, in a solemn voice, the last word inscribed by Charney. — 

“Perhaps I” 

And ere the startled Count could address him, he had quitted 
the apartment. 


.44 


PICCIOLA. 


CHAPTER VII. 

Elated by success, Ludovico lent his ear, in a sort of idiotic 
ecstasy, to every syllable uttered by the Count. Not that he com- 
prehended their meaning: — There^ luckily, he was safe. But his 
dead man was alive again ; had resumed his power of speaking, 
thinking, acting, — a sufficient motive of exultation and emotion to 
the delighted gaoler. 

*‘Viva!” cried he ; viva, evviva. He is saved. All ’s well ! 
Che maraviglia ! Saved ! — and thanks to whom ? — to what ?” 

And, waving in the air his earthen vessel, he proceeded to hug 
and embrace it, saluting it with the tenderest diminutives of the 
Tuscan vocabulary. 

“Thanks to what?” echoed the sick man. “Why, to your 
friendly care, my good Ludovico. Nevertheless, should my cure 
be perfected, you will find those doctors yonder claiming all ho- 
nour for their prescriptions ; and the priest for his prayers. 

“Neither they nor I have any title to the victory,” cried Ludo- 
vico, with still wilder gesticulation. “As to the Signore Capel- 
lano, his handiwork may have done something : ’tis hard to say. 
But as to the other, — ay, ay, — as to the other bringer of salva- 
tion — ” 

“To whom do you allude?” interrupted Charney, expecting 
that the superstitious Ludovico would attribute his recovery to the 
interposition of some favourite saint. “HT/m has deigned to be- 
come my protector ?” 

“ Say protectress, and you will be nearer the mark,” cried Lu- 
dovico. 

“The Madonna, — eh?” demanded Charney, with an ironical 
smile. 

“Neither saint nor Madonna!” replied the gaoler, stoutly. 
“ She who has preserved you from the jaws of death and the 
claws of Satan, (for dying without confession you were damned 
as w’ell as dead,) is no other than my pretty little god-daughter.” 

“ Your god-daughter !” said the Count, lending a more atten- 
tive ear to his rhapsodies. 

“ Ay, Eccellenza, my god-daughter, Picciola, Picciolina, Pic- 
ciolctta. Was not I the first to baptize your favourite? Did I 
not give her the name of Picciola? Have you not often told me 
so yourself? Ergo, — the plant is my god-daiighter, and I her 
god-father — -per Bacco ! I’m growing proud of the distinction!” 

Picciola!” exclaimed Charney, starting up, and resting his 
elbow on his pillow, while an expression of the deepest interest 


P I C C I 0 L A . 


45 


took possession of his countenance. “Explain yourself, my good 
Ludovico, explain yourself!” 

“ Come, come, no shamming stupid, my dear lord !” said the 
gaoler, resuming the customary wink of the eye, “ as if ’twas the 
first time that she had saved your life I” 

“ The first time?” 

“ Didn’t you tell me yourself that the herb was the only specific 
against the disorder to which you were subject? Lucky job I 
hadn’t forgotten it; for the Signora Picciola proves to have more 
wisdom in one of her leaves, than the whole faculty of Montpellier 
in the noddles that fill its trencher-caps. Trondidio, my little 
god-daughter is able to defeat a regiment of doctors! ay, in full 
complements — four battalions, and four hundred picked men to 
each. Pray, did not your three humbugs in black, throw back 
the coverlid on your nose, and pronounce you to be a dead man? 
while Picciola, the stout-hearted little weed, (God send her seed 
in her harvest!) brought you round in the saying of a paternoster? 
’Tis a recipe I mean to keep like the apple of my eye; and if ever 
poor little Antonio should fidl sick, he shall drink broths of the 
herb, and eat salads of it; though, good truth, ’tis as bitter as 
wormwood. A single cup of the infusion, and all acted like a 
charm. Vittoria! Viva V illustrissima Signorina Picciola 

Charney had not the heart to resent these tumultuous ecstacies 
of his worthy keeper. The idea of being indebted for his life to 
the agency of the feeble favourite, which had embellished his days 
of health, insensibly brought a smile to his still feverish lips. But 
a vague apprehension oppressed his feelings. 

“ in what way, my good Ludovico, did you manage to apply 
your remedy?” said he, faintly. 

“ Faith ! easily enough ! A pint of scalding water poured upon 
the leaves,” (Charney bit his lips with anxiety,) “ in a close ket- 
tle, which, after a turn or two over the stove, furnished the decoc- 
tion.” 

“ Indeed !” exclaimed the Count, falling back on his pillow, and 
pressing his hand to his forehead. “ You have then destroyed the 
plant! I must nov reproach you, Ludovico; you did it for the 
best. And yet, my poor Picciola! What will become of me, 
now I have lost my little companion !” 

“Come, come! compose yourself!” answered Ludovico, as- 
suming the paternal tone of a father comforting his child for the 
loss of a favourite plaything. “Compose yourself, and do not ex- 
pose your limbs to cold, by throwing off your clothes in this way. 
Listen to reason !” he continued, disposing the covering round the 
person of his patient. “ Was I to hesitate between the life of a 
gillyflower and the life of a man? Certairdy not! ’Twould have 
been a sin — a murder !” 


46 


PICCIOLA. 


Charney groaned heavily. 

“ However, I hadn’t the heart to plunge the poor thing head 
foremost into the smoking kettle. I thought a loan might do as 
well as total pillage; so, with my wife’s scissors, I snipped off 
leaves enough for a strong infusion, (sparing the buds ; for the 
jade has now three flower-buds for her top-knot,) and though her 
foliage is a little the thinner, I’ve a notion the plant will not suffer 
from thinning. Picciola will, perhaps, be the better for the job, 
as well as her master. So now, be prudent, eccellenza! only be 
prudent, and all will go by clock-wwk at Fenestrella.” 

Charney, directing a glance of grateful affection towards his 
gaoler, extended towards him a hand wjiich, this time, Ludovico 
felt himself privileged to accept ; for the eyes of the Count were 
moistened by tears of emotion. But suddenly recollecting him- 
self, and angry with his own infraction of the rule he had traced 
for his conduct towards those committed to his charge, the mus- 
cles of Ludovico’s dark face contracted, and he resumed his harsh, 
surly, every-day tone. Though still holding within his own the 
hand of his prisoner, he affected to give a professional turn to his 
attitude. 

“ See !” cried he, ” in spite of my injunctions, you still persist 
in uncovering yourself. Remember, sir, I am responsible for your 
recovery !” 

And, after further remonstrances, made in the dry tone of office, 
Ludovico quitted the room, murmuring to the accompaniment of 
his rattling keys, the burden of his favourite song : 

“I’m a gaoler by my trade ; 

A better ne’er was made. 

Easy ’tis to laugh for those that win, man J 
I’d rather turn the key 
Than have it turn’d on me. 

Better out of doors than always in, man! 

With a lira-lira-la, — driva din, man!’’ 


CHAPTER VIII. 

During the remainder of that and the following day, Charney 
exhibited the depression of mind and body which results from 
every great physical crisis. But on the third day he resumed his 
powers of thought and action; and, if still detained by weakness 
on his pillow, the time was not far distant when he was likely to 
resume his former habits of life. . 

What delight to renew his acquaintance with his benefactress j 


PICCIOLA. 


47 


All his thoughts were now turned towards Picciola! — There 
seemed to be something beyond the common course of events in 
the fact that a seed, accidentally shed within the precincts of his 
prison, should have germinated in order to cure in the first in- 
stance his moral disorder, — ennui : and in the second, the peril- 
ous physical disease to which he had been about to fall a victim, 
lie, whom the splendour of wealth had failed to enliven, — he, 
whom the calculations of human learning had failed to restore, — 
had been preserved, first and last, by a plant! — Enfeebled by ill- 
ness, he was no longer able to apply his full force of reasoning to 
the developement of the question; and a superstitious feeling, ac- 
cordingly, began to attach him with redoubled force to the myste- 
rious Picciola. It was impossible to ground upon a rational basis 
his sentiments of gratitude towards a non-sentient being ; never- 
theless Charney found it impossible to refuse his affection in ex- 
change for the existence bestowed upon him. Where reason is 
paralysed, imagination exercises her influence without restraint. 
Charney’s regard for his benefactress now became exalted into a 
religious feeling, or rather into a blind superstition. Between him 
and his favourite there existed a mysterious sympathy of nature, 
like the attraction which draws together certain inanimate sub- 
stances. He even fancied himself under a charm, — a spell of en- 
chantment. . Who knows? Perhaps the arrogant refuter of the 
existence of a God, is about to fall into the puerilities of judicial 
astrology. For in the secrecy of his cell, Charney does not hesi- 
tate to apostrophize Picciola as his star, — his destiny, — his talis- 
man of light and life 1 

It is a curious fact that scarcely one illustrious man, remarkable 
for knowledge or genius, convicted of doubt in the agency of a 
Providence, but has been in his own person the slave of supersti- 
tion : while attempting to throw off the yoke of servitude, submit- 
ting to become threefold slaves. In the blind eagerness of their 
pride to arrogate to their own merit the power or glory they have 
attained, — those deep-seated instincts of religion which they have 
attempted to stifle in their souls, — thrust out of their natural chan- 
nel, — force a way of their own towards daylight, and acquire a 
wild and irregular character. The homage they arrest in its 
course to heaven, falls back upon the earth. They would fain 
judge, though they refuse to believe : and the genius whose hori- 
zon they have circumscribed, requites the forced contraction by 
seeing things in part instead of a whole, and losing all power of 
estimating the homogeneous design of the great Master of all I 
They attach themselves to details, because an isolated fact is 
within the scope of their judgment : and do not so much as notice 
the points of union which connect it with universal nature. For 
what is the whole creation, — earth, air, water, — the winds, the 


48 


PICCIOLA. 


waves, the stars, — mankind, — the universe, but an infinite bein^, 
complete, premeditated, varied into inscrutable details, and breath- 
ing and palpitating under the omnipresent hand of God? 

Subdued, however, by the strength of his pride and the weak- 
ness of his health, Charney saw nothing to admire in nature but 
his weed, — his plant, — his Picciola ; and, as if to justify his folly by 
analogy, dived into the vast stores of his memory for a precedent. 

He called to mind all the miraculous plants recorded from the 
earliest times, by poet or historian; the holly Homer, — the 
palm-tree of Latona, — the oak of Odin; — nay, even the golden 
herb which shines before the eyes of the ignorant peasants of 
Brittany, and the May-flower, which preserves from evil thoughts 
the simple shepherdess of La Brie. He recollected the sacred 
fig-tree of the Romans, — the olive of the Athenians, — the Teutates 
of the Celts, — the vervain of the Gauls, — the lotus of the Greeks, 
— the beans of the Pythagoreans, — the mandrake of the Hebrews. 
He remembered the green campac which blossoms everlastingly 
in the Persian’s paradise; — the touba-tree which overshadows the 
celestial throne of Mahomet; — the magic camalata, the sacred 
amreet on whose branches the Indians behold imaginary fruits of 
Ambrosia and of voluptuous enjoyment. He recurred with plea- 
sure to the symbolical worship of the Japanese, who elevate the 
altars of their divinities on pedestals of heliotropes and water- 
lilies, assigning the throne of Love himself to the corolla of a ne- 
nuphar. He admired the religious scruples of the Siamese, which 
make it sacrilege to exterminate or even mutilate certain conse- 
crated shrubs. A thousand superstitions which in former times 
excited his pity and contempt toward the short-sightedness of 
human nature, tended now to elevate his fellow-creatures in his 
estimation. For the Count had discovered that, from the vegeta- 
tion of an humble flower, may emanate lessons of wisdom ; and 
doubted not, that all these idolatrous customs must have originated 
in sentiments of gratitude unexampled by tradition. 

“ From his imperial throne of the west,” thought Charney, 
“Charlemagne did not disdain to exhort the nation submitted to 
his rule, to the culture of flowers. And have not u®lian and He- 
rodotus recorded that the great Xerxes himself took such delight 
in the beauty of an oriental plane-tree, as to caress its stern, — 
press it tenderly in his arms, — sleep enraptured under its shade, — 
decorating it with bracelets and chains of gold, when compelled 
to bid adieu to his verdant favourite?” 

‘ As the convalescence of the Count proceeded, he was seated 
one morning reclining absorbed in thought in his own chamber, 
of which he had not yet ventured to cross the threshold, when his 
door was suddenly burst open, and Ludovico, with a radiant 
countenance, hastened towards him. 


PI CGI OLA. 49 

Vittoria !” cried he. “ The creature is in bloom. Picciola! 
— Piccioletta ! — -jiglioccia mia !” 

“ In bloom 1” cried Charney, starting up. “ Let me see her. — 
I 7nust see the blossom.” 

In vain did the worthy gaoler represent the imprudence of going 
too soon into the air; and implore the Count to delay the under- 
taking for a day or two. The morning was uncertain, — the atmo- 
sphere chilly. A relapse might bring the invalid once more to 
the gates of death. But Charney was deaf to all remonstrance ! 
He consented only to wait an hour, in order that the sun might 
become one of the party. 

“ Picciola is in bloom !” repeated Charney to himself. And 
how long, — how tedious did that hour appear, which was still to 
divide him from the darling of his imagination ! For the first time 
since his illness, he judged it necessary to dress. He chose to 
dedicate his first toilet to Picciola in bloom. He actually looked 
into his pocket-glass while he arranged his hair to do honour to 
his visit to a flower ! — Ajloicer? — Nay ! — surely something more? 
His visit is that of the convalescent to his physician, — of the 
grateful man to his benefactress , — almost of the lover to his mis- 
tress ! He was surprised to notice in the glass the ravages which 
care and sickness had wrought in his appearance. He began to 
suspect, for the first time, that bitter and venomous thoughts may 
tend to canker the human frame ; and milder contemplations pro- 
duce a more auspicious temperament. 

At the appointed moment, Ludovico reappeared, to offer to the 
Count de Charney the support of his arm down the steep steps of 
the winding stone staircase; and scarcely had the sick man 
emerged into the court, when the emotion caused by a sudden 
restoration to light and air, operating on the sensitiveness of an 
easily excitable nervous system, produced a conviction on his mind 
that the whole atmosphere was vivified and embalmed by the ema- 
nations of his flower. It was to Picciola he attributed the delight- 
ful emotions which agitated his bosom. 

The enchantress had, indeed, attired herself in all her charms! 
The coquette was shining in all her beauty. Her brilliant and 
delicately streaked corolla, in which crimson, pink, and white 
were blended by imperceptible gradations, her large transparent 
petal bordered by a little silvery fringe or ciliation, which the 
scattered rays of the sun seemed to brighten into a halo encircling 
the flower, exceeded the utmost anticipations of the Count, as he 
stood gazing with transport upon his queen ! He feared, indeed, 
to tarnish the delicacy of the blossom by the contact of his hand 
or breath. Analysis or investigation seemed out of the question, 
engrossed as he was by love and admiration for the delicate thing 
5 




50 


PICCIOLA. 


whose fragrance and beauty breathed enchantment upon every 
sense ! 

But he was soon startled from his reveries ! The Count no- 
ticed, for the first time, traces of the mutilation by which he had 
been restored to health ; branches half cut away, and fading leaves 
still wounded by contact with the scissors of Ludovico. Tears 
started into his eyes! Instead of admiration for the delicate lines 
and perfumes of those expanding blossoms, he experienced only 
gratitude for the gift of life ! He beheld a benefactress in his 
Picciola. 


CHAPTER IX. 

The physician of the prison condescended to authorize on the 
morrow, the Count de Charney’s resumption of his daily exercise. 
He was allowed the freedom of the little court, not only at the 
usual hours, but at any moment of the day. Air and exercise 
were considered indispensable to his recovery ; and thus, the pri- 
soner was enabled to apply himself anew to his long-interrupted 
studies. 

In the view of committing to writing his scientific observations 
on the developement of his plant, from the moment of its germi- 
nation, he tried to seduce Ludovico into furnishing him with pens 
and paper. He expected, indeed, to find the gaoler resume on 
this occasion an air of importance, and raise a thousand difficul- 
ties, but probably yield in the sequel out of love for his captive, 
or his god-daughter, or worldly pelf; for where perquisites were 
concerned, turnkey-nature was still uppermost. But to Charney’s 
great surprise, Ludovico received his propositions with the most 
frank good-humour. 

“Pens and ink? Nothing more easy. Signor Conte!” said he, 
tapping his pipe and turning aside his head to keep it alive by a 
whiff or two : for he made it a point to abstain from smoking in 
presence of the Count, to whom the smell of tobacco was disa- 
greeable. “ I, for my part, have no objection. But you see, such 
little tools as pens and paper remain under the lock and key of 
the governor, not under mine : and if you want writing materials, 
you have only to memorialize the captain-commandant, and your 
business is done !” 

Charney smiled, and persevered. 

“ But in order to frame my petition, good Ludovico,” said he, 
“pens, ink, and paper are, in the first instance, indispensable?” 

“True, ecccllcnza, true! But we must drag back the donkey 


PICCIOL A. 


51 


by the tail to make it get on — no uncommon method with peti- 
tions,” quoth the gaoler, half aside, crossing his hands consequen- 
, tially behind him. “ I must go straight to the governor, and tell 
him you have a request to make, no matter about what. That is 
not my business, but his and yours. If inconvenient to him to visit 
you in person, he ’ll send his man of business, who will furnish you 
with a pen and a piece of stamped paper, just one sheet, ruled in 
form for a petition, on which you must inscribe your memorial in 
his presence; after which, he places his seal on it in yours; you 
return the pen to him, he makes you a bow, and away he goes with 
the petition !” 

“ But it is not from the governor I ask for paper, Ludovico, ’tis 
from yourself” 

“ From me? You don’t then happen to know my orders?” re- 
plied the gaoler, resuming his accustomed severity. Then drawing 
a deep breath of his pipe, he exhaled the smoke with much delibe- 
ration, eyeing the Count askance during the process, turned on his 
heel, and quitted the room. 

Next day, when Charney returned to the charge, Ludovico 
contented himself with winking his eye, shaking his head, and 
shrugging his shoulders. Not a word now was to be extracted 
from him. 

Too proud to humiliate himself to the governor, but still bent 
upon his project, Charney now set to work to make a pen for him- 
self out of a crow-quill tooth-pick. With some soot, carefully dis- 
solved in one of the golden cups of his dressing-case, he furnished 
himself with ink and inkstand; while his cambric handkerchiefs, 
relics of a former splendour, were made to serve for writing-paper. 
With these awkward materials, he resolved to record the peculiar- 
ities of Picciola ; occupying himself, even when absent from his 
favourite, with details of her life and history. 

What profound remarks already presented themselves for inscrip- 
tion ! What pleasure would Charney have found in communicating 
his observations to any intelligent human being! His neighbour, 
the fly-catcher, might have been a satisfactory auditor; for Charney 
had now found occasion to admire the bland and benevolent ex- 
pression of a countenance, at first sight commonplace. Whenever 
the old man stood contemplating from his little window, with an 
inquiring and propitious eye, the beauty of Picciola, and the atten- 
tions of her votary, the Count felt irresistibly attracted towards his 
fellow-prisoner. Nay, smiles and salutations with the hand had 
been exchanged between them ; and it was only the rigid interdic- 
tion of all intercourse between prisoners at Fenestrella, which 
prevented mutual inquiries after each other’s health and pursuits. 
The solitary explorers into the mysteries of nature were therefore 


52 


PICCIOLA. 


compelled to keep to themselves their grand discoveries in botany 
and entomology. 

First among those by which Charney was interested, after the 
flowering of his plant, was the faculty exhibited by Picciola of 
turning her sweet face towards the sun, and following him with 
her looks throughout his daily course, as if to imbibe the greatest 
possible portion of his vivifying rays. When clouds obscured the 
orb of day, or there was a prospect of rain, her petals instantly 
closed, like a vessel furling its canvass before a storm. “Are light 
and heat so necessary, then, to her existence?” mused the Count ; 
“ and why should she fear to refresh herself with a sprinkling 
shower? Why? why? Picciola will explain! I have perfect 
confidence in Picciola!” 

Already his darling had fulfilled towards him the functions of a 
physician. She was now about to become his compass and baro- 
meter, perhaps even his timepiece; for by dint of constantly in- 
haling her fragrance, Charney found he could discover that her 
perfumes varied in power and quality at diflerent hours of the day. 
At first, this phenomenon seemed an illusion ; but reiterated ex- 
periments convinced him that he was not mistaken ; and he was 
soon able to designate to a certainty the hour of the day, according 
to the varying odour of the flower.* 

Innumerable blossoms already studded his beautiful plant : to- 
wards evening, their exhalations were as delicious as they were 
potent ; and at that moment, what a relief to the weary captive to 
draw near to his fiivourite ! He now constructed a rude bench, 
with some planks derived from the munificence of Ludovico, and 
pointed a few logs, which he contrived to insert into the interstices 
of the pavement. A rough plank, nailed transversely, aflbrded him 
a leaning place, as he sat for hours musing and meditating in the 
fragrant atmosphere of his plant. He was happier there than he 
had ever felt on his silken ottomans of former days; and hour after 
hour would he sit reflecting on his wasted youth, which had elapsed 
without the attainment of a single real pleasure, or genuine aftec- 
tion ! withering away in the midst of vain chimeras and prema- 
ture satiety. 

Often, after such retrospections, Charney found himself gradu- 
ally soothed into reveries between sleep and waking; his senses 
subdued into a sort of apathetic torpor, his imagination excited to 
a visionary ecstacy, perplexing the desolate Count with scenes of 
days past and days to come. 

He sometimes fancied himself in the midst of those brilliant 
fetes, where, though himself the victim of ennui, he used to lavish 


* Sir James Smith notices this property in \hc Antirrhinum repens. Flora 
Britannica, vol. ii. p. 638. 


PICCIOLA. 


53 


upon others all the pleasures and luxuries of life. He seemed to 
stand gazing, some night of the Carnival, beside the illuminated 
facade of his hotel in the Rue de Verneuil ; the rolling of a thou- 
sand carriages vibrating in his ear. One by one, they entered, by 
torchlight, his circular courtyard, depositing successively in the 
vestibule, covered with rich carpets, and protected by silken hang- 
ings, the fashionable belles of the day, enveloped in costly furs, 
under which was audible the rustling of satin or brocade ; the 
beaux of the imperial court, with their high-crowned hats, cravats 
up to their ears, and redundant knee-strings ; artists of eminence, 
with naked throats, Brutus-heads, and a costume half French, half 
Greek ; and men of science or letters, wearing the distinctive aca- 
demic collar of green. A crowd of lacqueys clustered on all sides, 
insolently defying, under their new liveries, the absolute decrees 
of the once puissant conventional republic of France. 

The fancy of Charney next ascended to the crowded saloons in 
which were assembled all that was illustrious or notorious of the 
capital. The toga and chlamyda were jumbled together with 
jackets, or frock-coats. High-heeled shoes, with rosettes, trod the 
same floors as jockey-boots, with spur on heel, nay, even with the 
caliga and cothurnus. Men of the law, the pen, the sword, mo- 
neyed men and moneyless, artists and ministers of state, all w'ere 
confounded in this olla podrida of the Directory. An actor stood 
liand in glove with an ex-bishop, a ci-devant peer with a ci-devant 
pauper ; aristocracy and democracy were united like twin brothers ; 
wealthy ignorance paraded itself arm in arm with starving erudi- 
tion. Such w'as the regeneration of society, rallying round a com- 
mon centre in masses, of which each felt itself still too feeble to 
stand alone. The marshalling of the crowd was deferred to some 
more convenient season ; there would be a time for that hereafter ! 
Such is the system of a play-ground, where all classes of a school 
mingle together under the impulse of a common thirst after amuse- 
ment. As the boys grow older, the powerful influence of the spirit 
of social order insensibly estranges them from unbecoming com- 
panions, and high and low mechanically range themselves under 
their appointed banners. 

With a silent smile did Charney contemplate this phantasma- 
goric display of piebald civilization. That which had once excited 
the bitter sneers of the man of the world, now served to divert him, 
as the memento of the wasted years spent by his native country in 
shallow, theoretic experiments, exposing it to the contempt of 
Europe. 

At times, brilliant orchestres appeared to strike into animating 
and joyous measures ; and lo ! the opening of the ball l-rr-Charney 
fancied he could recognise the favourite, airs of former days, but 
more impressive than at their first hearing. The glittering radi- 
5 * 


54 


PICCIOL A. 


ance of the lustres, their prismatic reflection in the numerous mir- 
rors, the soft and perfumed atmosphere of a ball-room — the aroma 
of a banquet — the mirth of the guests — the wild hilarity of the 
waltzers, who rustled against him in the mazy round, — the light 
and frivolous topics which excited their merriment, all tended to 
stimulate him to a degree of joyousness such as the reality of the 
dream had never succeeded in producing. 

Women, too, — ivory-shouldered, slender-waisted, swan-throated, 
— women, arrayed in sumptuous brocades, gauzes striped with gold, 
and gems of sparkling lustre, thronged around him, smiling as they 
returned his salutations. One by one, he recognised those lovely 
beings; the grace and ornaments of his entertainments, when, 
opulent and free, the Count de Charney was cited as one of the 
favoured ones of the earth. There figured, unrivalled, the majestic 
Tallien, arrayed in the classic tunic of Greece, and covered with 
gems and costly rings, even to the toes of a foot from which might 
have been modelled that of some Venus of antiquity, naked but for 
the slight concealment of a golden sandal; the fair Recamier, to 
whom Athens would have erected altars; and Josephine, ci~dcvant 
Countess of Beauharnqis, who, by dint of grace and affability, often 
passed for the fairest of these three graces of the Consulate. But 
even by the side of these, a hundred lovely women distinguished 
themselves, by their beauty or their elegance ; and how exquisite 
did they now appear in the dreaming eyes of Charney ! How much 
fairer, how much softer, than when they courted his smiles ! How 
gladly had he now commanded liberty of choice among so many 
consummate enchantresses ! 

Sometimes, in the wildness of his reveries, he did venture on 
selection ! — from the brilliant crowd he singled out one, — undis- 
tinguished, however, by the lustre of ivory shoulders, or a tiara of 
diamonds. Simple in attire as in deportment, his beauty lingered 
behind the rest, with downcast eyes, and- cheeks suffused with 
blushes; a girl, a young girl, arrayed in simple white, and the no 
less spotless array of perfect innocence. She had never shone in 
his galas of other times; though now she stood out prominent on 
the canvass, while all others vanished into shade. At last, she 
seemed alone; and Charney began to reconsider her, charm by 
charm, feature by feature. His feelings were gently agitated by 
the lovely vision. But how much more when, on raising his eyes 
to the dark braids of her raven hair, he beheld a flower blooming 
there, his flower, the flower of Picciola ! Involuntarily he extended 
his arms towards the beauteous apparition, when, lo ! all grew con- 
fused and misty; and the distant music of the orchestre became 
'once more audible, as the fair maiden and fair flower appeared to 
melt into each other. The fragrant corolla, expanding, enclosed 
with its delicate petals the loveliest of human faces, till all was 


PICCIOLA. 


55 


hidden from his view. Instead of the gorgeous hangings and 
gilded walls of the ball-room, a hovering exhalation presented 
itself to the eyes of the Count. The lustres gradually extinguished, 
vanished in the distance, emitting a feeble arch of light on the 
outskirts of the gathering clouds. Rude pavement replaced the 
smooth and lustrous floor ; stern Reason re-appeared to take pos- 
session of her throne ; and the gracious illusions of fancy expired 
at her approach. A touch of the fatal wand of Truth dispelled at 
once the dream of the captive. 

Charney woke to find himself musing on his rustic bench, his 
feet resting on the stones of the court-yard, and the daylight fading 
over his head. But Picciola, — thanks be to Heaven, Picciola is 
still before him ! 

The first time the Count became conscious of this species of 
vertigo, he noticed that it was only when meditating in the atmo- 
sphere of his plant that such gentle visions descended upon his 
mind. He recollected that the emanations of certain flowers are 
of so intoxicating a nature as even to produce asphyxia. It was, 
therefore, under the influence of his favourite, that these delicious 
dreams visited his imagination; and for his fete — his houris — his 
banquets — his music — he was still indebted to Picciola. 

But the fair girl — the modest, gentle girl by whose image he had 
been so powerfully impressed — from whence has he derived her 
image? Did he ever behold her among the haunts of men? Is 
“"she, like the other divinities of his dream, the creature of reminis- 
cence? Memory had nothing to reply ! The past afforded no pro- 
totype for her charms! But the future; — if the vision his fancy 
has created should be the creature of anticipation, of presentiment 
rather than of recollection ? alas! of what avail anticipations — of 
what avail revelations of the future to the unfortunate Charney ! 
In a sentence of imprisonment for life, the destinies of the captive 
are accomplished. 

All human hope, therefore, must be laid aside. The young girl 
of blooming blushes, and draperies of virgin white, shall be the 
Picciola of his imagination; — Picciola in the poetical personifica- 
tion of a dream; — his idol, his love, his bride. The sweet coun- 
tenance and graceful form revealed to him, shall image forth the 
guardian spirit of his plant : with that, his reveries shall be bright- 
ened, and the aching void in his heart and soul filled up for ever ! 
She shall dwell with him, muse with him, sit by his side, accom- 
pany his lonely walks, reply to him, smile upon him, enchant him 
with her ethereal love ! She shall share his existence, his breath, 
his heart, his soul. He will converse with her in thought, and 
close his eyes to gaze upon her beauty ! They shall form but one, 
in order that he may be alone no longer. 

These emotions superseded the graver studies of the prisoner 


56 


PICCIOL A. 


of Fenestrella, the enjoyments of the heart succeeding to those of 
the mind. Charney now gave himself up to all that poetry of ex- 
istence, from whose sphere the soul returns laden with perfumes, 
as the bee, after extracting from the breast of the flower a harvest 
of honey. There was a life of daily hardship and captivity to be 
endured ; there was a life of love and ecstacy to be enjoyed ; and 
united, though apart, they completed the measure of existence of 
the once envied, but most unhappy Count de Charney. His time 
was shared between Picciola, his mortal flower — and Picciola, his 
immortal love: to reason, or rather reasoning, succeeded happi- 
ness and love ! 


CHAPTER X. 

Induced at length to renew his experimental inquiries into the 
process of inflorescence, Charney became enchanted by the pro- 
digious and immutable congruities of Nature. For some time, 
indeed, his eyes were baffled by the infinite minuteness of the phe- 
nomena to which his attention was directed ; when, just as his 
patience became exhausted by his own incapacity, Ludovico con- 
veyed to him, from his neighbour the fly-catcher, a microscopic 
lens, with which Girardi had been enabled to number eight thou- 
sand oculary facets on4he cornea of a fly’s eye. 

Charney was transported with joy at the acquisition ! — The 
most occult portion of the flower now became manifested for his 
investigation ; and already he fancied himself advancing with 
gigantic strides m the path of science. Having carefully analyzed 
the texture of his flower, he convinced himself that the brilliant 
colours of the petal, their form, their crimson spots, the bands of 
velvet or satin which adorn their bases or fringe their extremities, 
are not intended for the mere gratification of the eye ; but for the 
purpose of reflecting, attracting, or modifying the rays of the sun, 
according to the necessities of the flower during the grand process 
of fructification. The polished crowns, or studs of the calyx, 
lustrous like porcelain, are doubtless glandular masses for the 
absorption of the air, light, and moisture, indispensable to the 
formation of the seed : for without light, no colour, — without air 
and moisture, no vitality. Moisture, light, and heat, are the ele- 
ments of vegetable life, which, on its extinction, it bequeaths in 
restitution to the universe. 

Unknown to Charney, his reveries and studies had attracted 
two deeply interested spectators; Girardi and his daughter. The 
latter, educated in habits of piety and seclusion, by a father im- 


PICCIOLA. 


57 


bued with reverential religious sentiments, was olessed with one 
of those ethereal natures, in which every good and holy interest 
seems united. The beauty and excellence of Teresa Girardi, the 
graces of her person and mind, had not failed to attract admirers; 
and her deep and expansive sensibility seemed to announce a pre- 
disposition for human affections. But if a vague preference had 
occasionally influenced her feelings amid i\\Q fetes of Turin, every 
impulse of her gentle heart was now concentrated into grief for 
the captivity of her father. 

Her soul was humbled, — her spirits subdued. Two only objects 
predominated in her heart: her father in prison, — her Saviour on 
the cross; despair on earth, but trust in immortality. Not that 
the fair daughter of Italy was of a melancholy mind. Her duties 
were easy to her, her sacrifices a delight; and where tears were 
to be dried or smiles awaked, there was the place of Teresa: 
hitherto, she had accomplished this task towards her father only; 
but from the moment'of beholding Charney, his air of depression 
excited a two-fold compassion in her bosom. A captive like her 
father, and with her father, a mysterious analogy seemed to unite 
their destinies. But the Count is even more deserving pity than 
her father. The Count had no earthly solace remaining but a 
poor plant; and with what tenderness does he cultivate this last 
remaining affection ! The noble countenance and fine person of 
the prisoner might, perhaps, unsuspected by Teresa, tend to 
enhance her compassion ; but had she become acquainted with 
him in his days of splendour, when surrounded by the deceptions 
attributes of happiness, these would never have sufficed to distin- 
guish him in her eyes. His isolation, — his abandonment, — his 
calamity, — his resignation, have alone attracted her interest, and 
prompted the gift of her tenderness and esteem. In her ignorance 
of men and things, Teresa is induced to include misfortune in her 
catalogue of virtues. 

As bold in pursuance of a good action, as timid in personal 
deportment, she often directed towards Charney the good offices 
of her father; and one day when Girardi advanced to the window, 
instead of contenting himself, as usual, with a salutation of the 
hand, he motioned to the Count to draw as near as possible to the 
window ; and, having moderated his voice to the lowest pitch, 
whispered — 

“ 1 have good news for you.” 

“ And I my thanks to return,” replied Charney, “ for the micro- 
scope you have been kind enough to send me.” 

“ It is rather to my daughter your thanks are due,” replied 
Girardi. “It was Teresa who suggested the offer.” 

“ You have a daughter; and are you allowed the happiness of 
seeing her ?” demanded the Count, with interest. 


58 


PICCIOLA. 


“ I am indeed so fortunate,” replied the old man ; and return 
daily thanks to Heaven for having bestowed on me an angel in my 
child. During your illness, sir, none were more deeply interested 
in your welfare than my Teresa. Have you never noticed her at 
the grating, watching the care you devote to your flower!” 

“ I have some idea that ” 

“But, in talking of my girl,” interrupted the old man, “I 
neglect to acquaint you with important news. The Emperor is 
on his way to Milan, for his coronation as King of Italy.” 

“ King of Italy 1” reiterated Charney. “ Doubtless, then, alas I 
to be our master. As to the microscope,” continued the Count, 
who cared less for king or kaiser than for his ruling passion, “ I 
have detained it too long: you may be in want of it. Yet, as my 
experiments are still incomplete, perhaps you will permit ” 

“ Keep it,” interrupted the fly-catcher with a beneficent smile, 
perceiving, by the intonation of Charney’s voice, with what regret 
he was about to resign the solace of his solitude, “ keep it in re- 
membrance of a companion in misfortune, who entertains a lively 
interest in your welfare.” 

Charney would have expressed his gratitude; but his generous 
friend refused all thanks. “ Let me finish what I have to com- 
municate, ere we are interrupted,” said he. Then, lowering his 
voice again, he added, “ It is rumoured that a certain number of 
prisoners will be released, and criminals pardoned, in honour of 
the coronation. Have you friends, sir, in Turin or Milan I Are 
there any to intercede for you ?” 

The Count replied by a mournful negative movement of the 
head. “ I have not a friend in the world I” was his reply. 

“Not a friend!” exclaimed the old man, with a look of pro- 
found pity. “ Have you, then, exhibited mistrust of your fellow- 
creatures? — for friendship is unpropitious only to those who with- 
hold their faith. I, Heaven be thanked, have friends in abundance, 
— good and faithful friends, — who might, perhaps, be more suc- 
cessful in your behalf than they have been in mine.” 

“ I have nothing to ask of General Bonaparte,” said Charnev, 
in a harsh tone, characteristic of all his former animosities. 

“Hush! speak lower! I hear footsteps,” said Girardi. 

There was an interval of silence; after which the Italian re- 
sumed, in a tone which softened, by almost paternal tenderness, 
the rebuke which it conveyed. 

“ Y our feelings are still imbittered, my dear companion in ad- 
versity. Surely your study of the works of Nature ought to have 
subdued a hatred which is opposed to all the commandments of 
God, and all the chances of human 'Iiappiness ! Has not the 
fragrance of your flower poured balm into your wounds? The 
Bonaparte, of whom you speak so vindictively, surely I have more 


PIC CIOL A. 


59 


cause to hate him than yourself! My only son perished under his 
banner of usurpation.” 

“True! And did you not seek to avenge his death?” 

“The false rumour, then, has reached you,” said the old man, 
raising his head with dignity towards heaven, as if in appeal to 
the testimony of the Almighty. “/ revenge myself by a deed of 
blood! No, sir! no! My utmost crime consisted in the despair 
which prompted me, when all Turin saluted the victor with accla- 
mations, to oppose to them the cries of my parental anguish. I 
was arrested on the spot ; a knife was found on my person, and I 
was branded with the name of assassin ; /, an agonized father, 
who had just learned the loss of an only son.” 

“Infamous injustice! infamous tyranny!” cried the Count, with 
indignation. 

“Nay,” remonstrated Girardi, “I thank Heaven I am able to 
perceive that Bonaparte may have been deceived by appearances. 
Plis character is neither wicked nor cruel ; or what was there to 
prevent him from putting us both to death ? By restoring me to 
liberty, he would only atone an error; nevertheless, I should bless 
him as a benefactor. I find captivity, however, by no means in- 
supportable. Full of trust in the mercy of Providence, I resign 
myself to the event; but the sight of my imprisonment afflicts my 
daughter; and for /ler sake I desire my liberation. I would fain 
shorten her exile from the world, her alienation from the pleasures 
of her age. Say! — have yo?e no human being who sorrows over 
misfortunes ? — no who weeps for you in secret, to 

whom you would sacrifice even your pride, as an oppressed and 
injured man? Come, come, my dear brother in adversity! author- 
ize my friends to include your name in their petitions!” 

Charney answered with a smile, — “No woman weeps for me! 
no one sighs for my return : for I have no longer gold to purchase 
their affection. What is there to allure me anew into the world, 
where I was even less happy than at Fenestrella? But even were 
troops of friends awaiting me, — had I still wealth, honour, and 
happiness in store, — I would refuse the gift of freedom from that 
hand, whose power and usurpations 1 devoted myself to over- 
throw.” 

“You deny yourself even the enjoyment of hope?” said 
Girardi. 

“ Never will I bestow the title of emperor on one, who is either 
my equal or my inferior.” 

“ Beware of sacrificing yourself to a sentiment, the offspring 
of vanity rather than of patriotism !” cried Girardi. “ But peace ! 
silence !” said he, more cautiously. “ Some one approaches in 
earnest. Addio, away !” And the venerable Italian disappeared 
from the grated window. 


60 


PICCIOLA. 


“ Thanks ! — a thousand thanks for the microscope !” was Char- 
ney’s last exclamation, as Girardi vanished from his view. And 
at that moment the door of the court-yard creaked on its hinges, 
and Ludovico made his appearance with the basket of provisions, 
forming the daily allowance of his prisoner. Observing the Count 
to be silent and absent, the gaoler accosted him only by rattling 
the plates, as he went by, as a signal that his dinner was ready. 
Then, having ascended to place all in order in the little chamber, 
amused himself, as he re-crossed the court, with making a silent 
obeisance to the Signor and Signora, as he was now in the habit 
of qualifying the Count de Charney, and his plant. 

“The microscope is mine!” mused Charney, when he found 
himself alone. “ But how have I merited such kind consideration 
on the part of a stranger 1 Ludovico, too, has become my friend. 
Under the rough exterior of the gaoler, beats a kind and noble 
heart. There exist, then, after all, virtuous and warm-hearted 
men. But where ! In a prison!” 

“ Be thankful to adversity,” remonstrated conscience, “ which 
has made you capable of appreciating a benefit received. To what 
amounts the generosity of these two men ? One of them watered 
your plant for you in secret; the other has conferred on you the 
means of analyzing its organization.” 

“ In the smallest services consists the truest generosity,” argued 
Charney, in reply. 

“ True,” resumed the voice, “ when such services are dedicated 
to your own convenience. Had Picciola never sprung to life, these 
two beings would have remained in your eyes, — the one a doting 
old man, engrossed by puerile pursuits; the other, a gross and 
sordid clod, absorbed by the love of gain. In your world of other 
days. Sir Count, to what, pray, did you attach yourself? To nothing. 
Your soul recoiled upon itself, and no man cared for you. By love 
comes love. It is your attachment to Picciola which has obtained 
you the affection of your companions. Picciola is the talisman by 
which you have attracted their regard.” 

Charney interrupted this mono-dialogue by a glance from the 
microscope towards Picciola. He has already forgotten the an- 
nouncement of “ Napoleon, Emperor of the French, and King of 
Italy 1” — one half of which formerly sufficed to convert him into a 
conspirator and a captive. How unimportant in his eyes, now, 
those honours conferred by nations, and based upon the liberties 
of Europe ! An insect hovering over his plant, threatening mis- 
chief to its delicate vegetation, seems more alarming than the 
impending destruction of the balance of power, by the conquests 
of a new Alexander. 


PIC CIOLA. 


61 


CHAPTER XI. 

Armed with his glass, Charney now extended his field of bota- 
nical discovery ; and, at every step, his enthusiasm increased. It 
must be owned, however, that inexperienced as he was in the me- 
thod of scientific inquiry, devoid of first principles and appropriate 
instruments, he often found himself defeated ; and the spirit of 
paradox became insensibly roused to existence by the cavilling tem- 
per of his mind. 

He invented half a hundred theories on the circulation of the 
sap ; on the coloration of the various parts of the flower ; on the 
secretion of different kinds of aroma by different organs of the 
stem, the leaves, the flowers ; on the nature of the gum and resin 
emitted by vegetables, and the wax and honey extracted by bees 
from the nectary. At first, ready answers suggested themselves to 
all his inquiries; but new systems arose, to confute on the morrow 
those of the preceding day. Nay, Charney seemed to take delight 
in the impotence of his own judgment, as if affording wider scope 
to the efforts of his imagination, and an indefinite term to the du- 
ration of his experiments and inferences. 

A day of joy and triumph for the enthusiast was now approach- 
ing ! He had formerly heard, and heard with a smile of incredu- 
lity, allusion to the loves of plants, and the sublime discoveries of 
Linnaeus concerning vegetable generation. It was now his pleasing 
task to watch the gradual accomplishment of maternity in Picciola; 
and when, with his glass fixed on the stamens and pistils of the 
flower, he beheld them suddenly endowed with sensibility and ac- 
tion, the mind of the sceptic became paralyzed with wonder and 
admiration ! By analogical comparison, his perceptions rose till 
they embraced the vast scale of the vegetable and animal creation. 
He recognised with a glance the mightiness, the immensity, the 
harmony of the whole. The mysteries of the universe seemed sud- 
denly developed before him. His eyes grew dim with emotion, — 
the microscope escaped his hand. The atheist sinks back over- 
powered on his rustic bench, and after nearly an hour of profound 
meditation, the following apostrophe burst from the lips of Char- 
ney : — 

“ Picciola!” said he, in a tone of deep emotion, — “I had once 
the whole earth for my wanderings, — I was surrounded by those 
who called themselves my friends — by men of letters and science : 
and not one of the learned ever bestowed upon me as much instruc- 
6 


G2 


PICCIOLA. 


tion as I have received from thee ! — not one of the friendly ever 
rendered me such good offices as thine ! In this miserable court- 
yard, between the stones of whose rugged pavement thou hast 
sprung to life, I have reflected more, and experienced more pro- 
found emotions, than while traversing in freedom all the countries 
of Europe ! Blind mortal that I have been ! — When first I beheld 
thee, pale, feeble, puny, I looked on thee with contempt ! And it 
was a companion that was vouchsafed to me — a book that was 
opened for my instruction — a world that was revealing itself to my 
wondering eyes ! The companion solaces my daily cares — attach- 
ing me to the existence restored me by her aid, and reconciling 
me with mankind, whom I had unfairly condemned. The book 
teaches me to despise all works of human invention, convicting my 
ignorance, and rebuking my pride ; — instructing me that science, 
like virtue, is to be acquired through lowliness of mind. Inscribed 
in the living characters of a tongue so long unknown to me, it con- 
tains a thousand enigmas, of which every solution is a word of 
hope. The w'orld is the region of the soul — the abstract and cri- 
terion of celestial and eternal nature : — the revelation of the organic 
law of love, from which results the order of the universe, the gravi- 
tation of atoms, the attraction of suns, and the electric union of all 
created things, from the highest star to the hyssop on the wall — 
from the crawling insect to man, who walks the earth with his 
brows elevated towards heaven — perhaps in search of the omnipo- 
tent Author of his being !” 

The breast of Charney swelled with irrepressible emotion as 
he spoke. Thought succeeded thought in his brain; feeling after 
feeling arose in his heart; — till, starting from his seat, he began 
to traverse the court with hurried footsteps. At length, his agita- 
tion exhausted, he returned towards his Picciola, gazed upon her 
with ineffable tenderness, raised his eyes to heaven, and faintly 
articulated, — “ Oh ! mighty and unseen God ! — the clouds of learn- 
ing have too much confused my understanding, — the sophistries 
of human reason too much hardened my heart, for thy divine 
truths to penetrate at once into my understanding. In my un- 
worthiness to comprehend thy glorious revelations, 1 can yet only 
call upon thy name, and humbly seek thy infinite, but invisible 
protection.” 

And with grave demeanour, Charney retraced his steps to his 
chamber ; where the first sentence that met his eyes, inscribed 
with his own hand upon the wall, was — 

“ God is but a w'ord !” 

In another moment he had superadded to the inscription, — a 
word, which serves perhaps to solve the great enigma of crea- 
tion !” 

Perhaps" — the master word of doubts, still disfigured the 


PICCIOLA. 


63 

phrase! — But it was something for the arrogant Charney to have 
arrived at doubt, from the extreme of absolute negation. He was 
recoiling in the path of falsehood he had so long pursued. He no 
longer pretended to rely for support upon his own strength, — his 
own faculties. He is willing now to learn, eager to perpetuate the 
soft emotions by which his pride has been subdued, and it is still 
to the insignificant Picciola he turns for instruction, — for a creed, 
— a God, — an immortality. 


CHAPTER XII. 

Thus passed the days of the prisoner; and after whole hours 
devoted to inquiry and analysis, Charney loved to turn from the 
weariness of his studies to the brightness of his illusions, — from 
Picciola the blooming plant, to Picciola the blooming girl. When- 
ever the awakening perfumes of his flower ascended to his cham- 
ber, oppressing his senses, and creating misty confusion before his 
eyes, he used to exclaim, “To-night Picciola will hold her court; 
I must hasten to Picciola.” 

Thus predisposed to reverie, his mind was promptly attuned 
into the sort of doze, in which, during the absence of reason, 
“ mimic fancy wakes.” Oh ! were it not, indeed, a dearer enjoy- 
ment than any yet vouchsafed to human nature, if man could so 
far acquire authority over his dreams, as to live at will that 
secondary life where events succeed each other with such rapidity; 
where centuries cost us but one breathing hour ; where a magic 
halo environs all the actors of the drama, and where nothing is 
rea. but the emotions of our thrilling hearts? Would you have 
music? Harmonious concerts might arise in spontaneous unison, 
unprefaced by discordant tuning, the anxious looks of the musi- 
cians, or the ungraceful and quaint forms of their instruments. 
Such is the world of dreams! Pleasure without repentance; the 
rainbow without the storm ! 

To such illusions did Charney resign himself! Faithful to the 
gentle image of his Picciola, it was to her he invariably appealed ; 
and the vision came at his call, simple, modest, and beautiful, as 
at its first advent. Sometimes he surrounded her with the com- 
panions of his early studies; sometimes, united with his mother 
and sister, his imaginary love served to create around him the 
domestic happiness of his youth. Sometimes she seemed to in- 
troduce him into a dwelling cheered by competence, and adorned 
with elegance, where pleasures hitherto unknown, came wooing 
his enjoyment. After evoking the joys of memory and calling up 


64 


PICCIOL A. 


reminiscences of the past, she gave existence to hope, to ties un- 
dreamed of, and joys unknown. Mysterious influence ! Where 
was he to find the solution of the mystery? With the view of 
future comparison, the Count actually began to record on his cam- 
bric pages the wild illusions of his dreams ! 

One evening, in the midst of a flight of fancy, Picciola for the 
first time dispelled the charm of happiness and serenity, by the 
exercise of a sinister influence! At a later moment he recurred 
to the event as the effect of a fatal presentiment! 



It was just as the fragrance of the plant indicated the sixth hour 
of evening, and Charney was musing at his accustomed post. 
Never had that aromatic vapour exercised its powers more 
potently : for more than thirty.full-blown flowers were emitting the 
magnetic atmosphere, so influential over the senses of the Count, 
lie fancied himself surrounded once more by the crowds of 
society; having drawn aside from which, towards an esplanade of 
verdure, his beloved Picciola deigned to follow his footsteps. The 
graceful phantom advanced smiling towards him ; and Charney, 
in a musing attitude, stood admiring the supple grace of the young 
girl, around whose well-turned form the drapery of her snow-white 
dress played in harmonious folds, and her raven tresses, amid 
which bloomed the never absent flower ! On a sudden he saw her 
start, stagger, and extend her arms towards him. He tried to rush 


PICCIOLA. 


65 


towards her; but an insurmountable obstacle seemed to separate 
him from her side. A cry of horror instantly escaped his lips, 
and lo! the vision disappears! He wakes, but it is to hear a 
second cry, respondent to his own ; yes, the cry, the voice of a 
female ! 

Nevertheless, the Count is still in his usual place — in the old 
court, and reclining on the rustic bench beside his Picciola! But 
at the grating of the little window, appeared the momentary glimpse 
of a female form 1 A soft and melancholy countenance, half hid 
in shade, seems gazing upon him; but when, rising from his seat, 
he hastens towards it, the vision vanishes, or rather the young girl 
hastens from the window. However swift her disappearance, 
Charney was able to distinguish her features, her hair, her form, 
the whiteness of her robe. He paused. Is he asleep or waking? 
Can it be that the insurmountable obstacle which divides him from 
Picciola is no other than the grating of a prison? 

At that moment, Ludovico hastens towards him with an air of 
consternation. 

“Are you again indisposed. Signor Conte?"'' cried the gaoler. 
“Have you had another attack of your old disorder? Trondidio! 
If we are obliged, for form’s sake, to send for the prison doctor, 
I’ll take care, this time, that no one but Madame Picciola and 
myself have a hand in the cure!” 

“ I am perfectly well,” replied Charney, trying to recover his 
composure. “ What put it into your head that I was indisposed?” 

“ The fly-catcher’s daughter came in search of me. She. saw 
you stagger, and hearing you cry aloud, fancied you were in need 
of assistance.” 

The Count relapsed into a fit of musing. It seemed to occur 
to him, for the first time, that a young girl occasionally inhabited 
that part of the prison. 

“ 'J'he resemblance I fancied I could discover between the 
stranger and Picciola, is doubtless a new delusion !” said he to 
himself. And he now recalled to mind Teresa’s interest in his 
favour, mentioned to him by the venerable Girardi. The young 
Piedmontese had compassionated his condition during his illness. 
To her he is indebted for the possession of his microscope. His 
heart becomes suddenly touched with gratitude, and in the first 
effusion, a sudden remark seems to sever the double image, the 
young girl of his dreams, from the young girl of his waking hours ; 
“ Girardi’s daughter wore no flower in her hair.” 

'J'hat moment, but not without hesitation, not without self-re- 
proach, he plucked with a trembling hand from his plant a small 
branch covered with blossoms. 

“ Formerly,” thought Charney, “ what sums of money did 1 
lavish to adorn, with gold and gems, brows devoted to perjury and 
G* 


G6 


PICCIOL A. 


shame 1 upon how many abandoned women and heartless men did 
I throw away my fortune, without caring more for them than for 
the feelings of my own bosom, which, at the same moment, I 
placed in the dust under their feet. Oh ! if a gift derives its value 
from the regard in which it is held by the donor, never was a 
richer token offered by man to woman, my Picciola, than these 
flowers which I borrow from thy precious branches to bestow on 
the daughter of Girardi 

Then, placing the blossomed bough in the hands of the gaoler, 
“ Present these in my name to the daughter of my venerable neigh- 
bour, good Ludovico!’’ said he. “Thank her for the generous 
interest she vouchsafes me ; and tell her that the Count de Char- 
ney, poor, and a prisoner, has nothing to offer her more worthy 
her acceptance.” 

Ludovico received the token with an air of stupefaction. He 
had begun to enter so completely into the passion of the captive 
for his plant, that he could not conjecture by what services the 
daughter of the fly-catcher had merited so distinguished a mark 
of munificence. 

“ No matter 1 Capo di San Pasquali exclaimed Ludovico, as 
he passed the postern. “ They have long admired my god-daughter 
at a distance. Let us see what they will say to the brightness 
of her complexion, and sweetness of her breath, on a nearer ac- 
quaintance, Piccioletta mia^ andiamo !” 


CHAPTER XIII. 

Many sacrifices of a similar kind, however, were now required 
of Charney. The epoch of fructification is arrived. The bril- 
liant petals of many of the flowers have fallen, and their stamens 
become useless: decaying, like the cotyledons, after the first 
leaves had attained maturity. The ovary containing the germ of 
the seeds begins to enlarge within the calyx. The fertile flowers 
lay aside their beauty, like matrons wdio, in achieving their ma- 
ternal triumphs, begin to disdain for themselves the vain adorn- 
ments of coquetry. 

The Count now devotes his attention to the most sublime of all 
the mysteries of nature, the perpetuation of created kinds, and 
the reproduction of life. In opening and analyzing a bud detached 
some time before from the tree, by the injury of an insect, Char- 
ney had noticed the primary germ destined to fertilization, but 
demanding protection and nutriment from the flower before its 


PICCIOLA. 


67 


feeble organization could be perfected. Admirable foresight of 
nature, as yet unexplained by the logic of science. But now the 
reproduction of a future Picciola is to be completed ; and the 
narrow seed must be made to comprehend all the developement 
of a perfect plant. The curious observer is to direct his notice 
to the fecundation of the vegetable egg; and for this purpose, 
Picciola must be submitted to further mutilation. No matter ! — 
She is already preparing herself for the reparation of her losses. 
On all sides, buds are reappearing. From every joint of her 
stem, or branches, new shoots are putting forth to produce a se- 
cond flowering. 

In pursuance of this task, Charney soon took his usual seat 
with the grave demeanour of an experimentalist. But scarcely 
had he cast his eyes upon the plant when he is shocked by the 
air of languor apparent in his favourite. The flowers inclining 
on their peduncles, seem to have lost their power of turning to- 
wards the sun; their leaves curling inwards their deep and lus- 
trous verdure. For a moment Charney fancies that a heavy storm 
is at hand; and prepares his mats and osier bands to secure Pic- 
ciola from the force of the wind or hail. But no! the sky is 
cloudless; — the air serene; — and the lark is heard singing out of 
sight, overhead, secure in the breathlessness of the blue expanse 
of heaven. 

Charney’s brow becomes overcast. “ She is in want of water,” 
is his first idea ; but having eagerly fetched the pitcher from his 
chamber, and on his knees beside the plant, removed the lower 
branches, in order at once to reach the root, he is struck motion- 
less with consternation. All— all — is explained. His Picciola is 
about to perish ! 

While the flowers and perfumes were multiplying to increase 
his studies and enjoyments, the stem of the plant, also, was increas- 
ing unobserved. Enclosed between two stones of the pavement, 
and strangled by their pressure, a deep indentation first gave token 
of her sufferings, the surface of which being at length crushed 
and wounded by the edges of the granite, the sap has begun to 
exude from the fissures, and the strength of the plant is exhaust- 
ed !, 

Limited in the allotment of soil for her nutriment, her sap un- 
naturally expanded, her strength overtasked, Picciola must die, 
unless* prompt relief can be afforded ! — Her doom is sealed 1 — 
One only resource remains. By removing the stones that weigh 
upon her roots, the plant may yet be preserved. But how to 
effect this, without an implement to assist her efforts? — Rushing 
towards the postern and knocking vehemently, the Count sum- 
mons Ludovico to his aid. But although on the gaoler’s arrival 
the explanation of the disaster and the sight of his expiring god- 


PICCIOL A. 


daughter overwhelm him with sorrow, no other answer can be 
obtained by Charney to his entreaties that the pavement may in- 
stantly be removed, than ^^Eccelknza! the thing is im[)ossible !” 

Without hesitation, the Count attempted to conciliate the 
gaoler’s acquiescence by the offer no longer of the gilt goblet of 
his dressing-case, but the whole casket. 

But Ludovico, assuming his most imposing attitude, folded his 
arms upon his breast; exclaiming, in his half-provincial, half- 
Piedmontese dialect, Bagasse, bagasse! Ludovico is too old 
a soldier to submit to bribery. I know my orders. I know my 
duty. It is to the captain-commandant you must address your- 
self.” 

“ No,” cried Charney. “ Rather would I tear up the stones 
with my hands, even were my bleeding nails sacrificed in the 
attempt !” 

“Ay, ay ! time will show !” replied Ludovico, resuming the 
pipe, which he was in the habit of holding half-extinguished 
under his thumb, during his colloquies with the Count ; and after 
a puff* or two, turning on his heel to depart. 

“ Good Ludovico ! — I have hitherto found you so kind, — so 
charitable! Can you do nothing for my assistance?” persisted 
Charney. 

Trondidio !” answered the gaoler, trying to conceal by an 
oath the emotion gaining upon his feelings, “ can’t you leave me 
a moment’s peace, — you and your cursed gilly-flower 1 — As to the 
poverina, I forgive ^ler, — ’tis no fault of Picciola ! — but as to you, 
whose obstinacy will certainly be the death of the poor thing ” 

“ What would you have me do, then?” exclaimed the Count. 

“ Petition the commandant, I tell you, petition the command- 
ant 1” cried Ludovico. 

“ Never !” 

“ There you are again ; but if your pride is so tetchy, will you 
give me leave to speak to him ?” 

“ No,” replied Charney ; “ I forbid you.” 

*^You forbid me!” cried the gaoler; — “Z> e! is it 7 /o?/r or- 

ders I am to obey? If I choose to speak to him, who is to pre- 
vent me?” 

“ Ludovico !” 

“ Set your mind at ease; I am not going to undertake any such 
fool’s errand. What business is it of mine? — Let her live, let her 
die ; — die m' importa? If you want to put an end to the plant, ’tis 
your own affair — Buona notte!” 

“ But has your commandant sense enough to understand me?” 
■ demanded the Count, detaining him. 

“ Why not? — do you take him for a kinserlick? Tell him your 
story straight on end : pack it into pretty little sentences; like a 


PICCIOLA. 


69 


scholar who knows what he is about; — for now’s the time to put 
your learning to some use. Why shouldn’t he enter into your love 
for a flower as well as I have? Besides, I shall be there to put in 
a word. I can tell him what a capital tisane is to be made of the 
herb. The commandant’s an ailing man himself He has got a 
sharp fit of the rheumatism upon him at this very moment, which 
will perhaps make him enter into the case.” 

Charney still hesitated ; but Ludovico pointed with one of his 
knowing winks to Picciola, sick and suffering ; and, with a gesture 
of anxiety from the Count, off went the gaoler on his errand. 

Some minutes afterwards, a man in a half-military, half-civil 
uniform, made his appearance in the court, with an inkstand and a 
sheet of paper bearing a government stamp. As Ludovico had 
announced, this person remained present while Charney wrote out 
his petition ; received it sealed into his hands, and, with a respect- 
ful bow, departed, carrying off the inkstand. 



70 


PICCIOLA. 


Reader, despise not the self-abasement of the haughty Count de 
Charney ! — marvel not at the readiness with which he has con- 
sented to an act of humiliation. Remember that Picciola is all in 
all to the poor prisoner ! Reflect upon the influence of isolation on 
the firmest mind, the proudest spirit ! Had he recourse to submis- 
sion when himself oppressed with suffering, pining after the free 
air of liberty, overpowered by the walls of his dungeon, as Picciola 
by its pavement? No! for his own woes the Count had fortitude; 
but between himself and his favourite, a league of mutual obliga- 
tion subsists — sacred enjoyments have arisen. Picciola preserved 
his life; must her own be sacrificed to his self-love? 

The venerable Girardi presently beheld the Count pacing the 
little court with agitated footsteps, and gestures of anxiety and im- 
patience. How tediously were the moments passing — how cruel 
the delay to which he was exposed ! Three hours had elapsed since 
he despatched his petition ; and no answer. As the sap of the ex- 
piring plant oozed from the wounded bark, Charney felt that he 
had rather his own blood were required of him. The old man, 
addressing him from the window, tried in vain to afford him con- 
solation; but at length, more experienced than himself in acci- 
dents of the vegetable and animal kingdom, indicated a mode of 
closing up the wounds of the stem, so as to remove at least one 
source of peril. 

With a mixture of finely chopped straw and moistened clay, he 
forms a mastic, easily fixed upon the bark with bandages of torn 
cambric. An hour passed rapidly in the performance ; but at its 
close, the Count has to bewail anew the silence of the governor. 

At the usual dinner hour, Ludovico made his appearance with a 
vexed and careworn countenance, annunciatory of no good tidings. 
The gaoler scarcely deigns a reply to the interrogations of Char- 
ney, except by monosyllables, or the roughest remonstrances. 

“ Can’t you wait? — What use in so much hurry? — Give him 
time to write !” 

Ludovico seemed preparing himself for the part which he found 
he should be required to play in the sequel. 

Charney touched not a morsel : the sentence of life or death was 
impending over Picciola; and he sat trying to inspire himself with 
courage, by protesting that none but the most cruel of men could 
refuse so trifling a concession as he had asked. But his impatience 
did but increase with his arguments, as if the commandant could 
have no business more important in hand than to address an imme- 
diate answer to his memorial. At the slightest noise, Charney’s 
eyes turned eagerly towards the door by which he was expecting 
the fiat of the governor. 

Evening came — no news; — night — not a word! The unfortu- 
nate prisoner did not close his eyes that night ! 


PICCIOLA. 


71 


CHAPTER XIV. 

On the morrow, the anxiously expected missive was delivered . 
to him. In the dry and laconic style of office, the commandant 
announced that no change could be made in the distribution of 
the walls, moats, or ditches of the fortress of Fenestrella, unless 
by the express sanction of the Governor of Turin ; “ and the pave- 
ment of the court,” added the commandant, “ is virtually a wall 
of the prison.” 

Charney stood confounded by the stupidity of such an argu- 
ment ! — To make the preservation of a flower a state question, — 
a demolition of the imperial fortification, — to wait a reply from 
the Governor of Turin ! — wait a century, when a day’s delay was 
likely to prove fatal ! The governor might perhaps refer him to 
the prime minister, — the minister to the senate, — the senate to the 
emperor himself. What profound contempt for the littleness of 
mankind arose in his bosom at the idea ! — Even Ludovico ap- 
peared little better in his eyes than the assistant of the execu- 
tioner : for on the first outburst of his indignation, the gaoler 
remonstrated in the tone of an underling of the administration, 
replying to all his entreaties by citing the rules and regulations of 
the fortress. 

Charney drew near to the feeble invalid whose bloom was 
already withering; and with what grief did he now contemplate 
her fading hues! The happiness — the poetry of his life seemed 
vanishing before him. The fragrance of Picciola already indicated 
a mistaken hour, like a watch whose movements are out of order. 
Every blossom drooping on its stem had renounced the power of 
turning towards the sun ; as a dying girl closes her eyes that she 
may not behold the lover, the sight of whom might attach her 
anew to a world from which she is departing. 

While Charney was giving way to these painful reflections, the 
voice pf his venerable companion in captivity appealed to his 
attention. 

“ My dear comrade,” whispered the mild and paternal accents 
of the old man, “if she should die, — and I fear her hours are 
numbered, — what will become of you here alone? What occupa- 
tion will you find to fill the place of those pursuits that have be- 
come so dear to you? You will expire, in your turn, of lassitude 
and ennui ; solitude once invaded, becomes insupportable in the 
renewal ! You will sink under its weight, as I should, were I now 


7Z 


PIC CIO LA. 


parted from my daughter, — from the guardian angel whose smile 
is the sunshine of my prison. With respect to' your plant, the 
Alpine breezes doubtless wafted hither the seed, or a bird of the 
air dropped it from his beak ; and even were the same circum- 
stance to furnish you with a second Picciola, your joy in the pre- 
sent would be gone, prepared as you would be to see it perish like 
the first. My dear neighbour, be persuaded ! — suffer me to have 
^your liberty interceded for by my friends. Your release will per- 
haps be more easily obtained than you are aware of. A thousand 
traits of clemency and generosity of the nevv emperor, are every 
where rumoured. He is now at Turin, accompanied by Jose- 
phine.” 

And this last name was pronounced by the old man as if it con- 
tained the promise of success. 

“At Turin !” — exclaimed Charney, eagerly raising his drooping 
head. 

“ For the last two days,” replied Girardi, delighted to see his 
advice less vehemently rejected than usual by the Count. 

“And how far is it from Turin to Fenestrella ?” continued 
Charney. 

“ By the Giaveno and Avigliano road, not more than seven 
leagues.” 

“ What space of time is necessary for the journey?” 

“ Four or five hours, at the least : for at this moment the roads 
are obstructed by troops, baggage-wagons, and the equipages of 
those who are hastening to the approaching festival. The road 
that winds through the valleys by the river side, is certainly the 
longest; but in the end, would probably cause less delay.” 

“And do you think it possible,” resumed Charney, “to procure 
a messenger for me who would reach Turin this very night?” 

“ My daughter would try to find a trustworthy person.” 

“And you say that General Bonaparte, — that the First Con- 
sul — ” 

“ I said the 'Emperor, — gravely interrupted Girardi. 

“ The Emperor, then, — you say that the Emperor is at Turin?” 
resumed Charney, as if gathering courage for some strong mea- 
sure. “I will address a memorial, then, to the Emperor.” And 
the Count dwelt upon the latter word, as if to accustom himself 
to the new road he had determined to follow. 

“ Heaven’s mercy be praised !” ejaculated the old man : “ for 
Heaven itself has inspired this victory over the instigations of 
sinful human pride! — Yes — write! let your petition for pardon be 
worded in proper form ; and my friends Fossombroni, Cotenna, 
and Delarue, will support it with all their interest, with Mares- 
calchi, the minister, with Cardinal Caprara, and even with Melzi, 
who has just been appointed chancellor of the new kingdom. 
Who knows? AVe may perhaps quit Fenestrella on the same 


PICCIOLA. 


73 


day! — you to recommence a fife of usefulness and activity, — I, to 
follow the gentle guidance of my daughter.” 

“Nay, sir — nay,” cried the Count. “ Forgive me if I decline 
the protection to which your good-will would generously recom- 
mend me. It is to the Emperor in person that my memorial must 
be remitted — to-night, or early in the morning. Do you answer to 
me for a messenger !” 

“ I do,” said the old man, firmly, after a momentary pause. 

“ One question more,” added Charney. “ Is there no chance 
of your being compromised by the service you are so kind as to 
render me ?” 

“ The pleasure of being of use to you leaves me no leisure for 
apprehension,” answered Girardi. “ Let me but lend my aid to 
the alleviation of your afflictions, and I am content. Should evil 
arise, I know how to submit to the decrees of Providence.” 

Charney was deeply touched by these simple expressions. Tears 
glistened in his eyes as he raised them towards the good old man. 

“What would I give to press your hand!” cried he; and he 
stretched out his arm with the utmost effort, in hopes to reach the 
grated window, while Girardi extended his between the bars. But 
it was all in vain. A movement of mutual sympathy was the utmost 
that could pass between them. 

When Charney took leave of Picciola, on his way to his cham- 
ber, he could not refrain from whispering, “ Courage ! I shall save 
thee yet !” And, having reached his miserable camera, he selected 
the whitest of his remaining handkerchiefs, mended his toothpick 
with the greatest care, made up a fresh supply of ink, and set to 
work. When his memorial was completed; which was not without 
a thousand pangs of wounded pride, a little cord descended from 
the grating of Girardi’s window, to which the paper was attached 
by the Count, and carefully drawn up. 

" An hour afterwards, the person who had undertaken to present 
the petition to the Emperor, was proceeding, accompanied by a 
guide, through the valleys of Suza, Bussolino, and St. George, 
along the bank of the river Doria. Both were on horseback ; but 
the greater their haste, the more perplexing the obstacles by which 
their way was impeded. Recent rains had broken away the bank ; 
the river was, in many spots, overflowing; and more than one 
raging torrent appeared to unite the Doria with the lake Avigliano 
Already, the forges of Giaveno were reddening in the horizon, an- 
nouncing that the day was about to close, when, joyfully regaining 
the high road, they entered, though not without having surmounted 
many difficulties, the magnificent avenue of Rivoli ; and late in the 
evening, arrived at Turin. The first tidings by which they were 
saluted, was an announcement that the emperor-king had already . 
proceeded to Alexandria. 

7 


74 


PICCIOLA. 


CHAPTER I. 

At dawn of day, next morning, the city of Alexandria was ar- 
rayed in all its attributes of festivity. An immense population cir- 
culated in the streets, festooned with tapestry, garlands of flowers, 
and glossy foliage. The crowd pressed .chiefly from the Town Hall, 
inhabited by Napoleon and Josephine, towards the triumphal arch, 
erected at the extremity of the suburb through which they were to 
pass on their way to the memorable plains of Marengo. 

The whole way, from Alexandria to the Marengo, the same 
populace, the same cries, the same braying of trumpets. Never 
had the pilgrimage to the shrine of our Lady of Loretto — never 
had even the Holy Jubilee of Rome, attracted such multitudes as 
were proceeding towards the field of that tremendous battle, 
whose ashes were scarcely yet cold in the earth. On the plain 
of Marengo, the Emperor has promised to preside over a sham- 
fight — a mimic representation, given in honour of the signal 
victory obtained five years before upon the spot, by the Consul 
Bonaparte. 

Tables, raised on trestles, appear to line the road. The people, 
in innumerable masses, are eating, drinking, singing, shouting, 
and acting plays in the open air. Even preaching is not ne- 
glected ; for more than one pulpit has been improvisated between 
the theatres and wine-shops; from which hosts of greasy monks, 
not satisfied with giving their benediction to the passengers, and 
exhorting them to temperance and sobriety, gratify their avarice 
by the sale of consecrated chaplets, and little virgins, carved in 
ivory. 

In the long and only street of the village of Marengo, every 
house, transformed into an inn, presents a scene of noise and con- 
fusion. To every window, the eyes of the spectators are attracted 
by strings of smoked hams or sausages; of quails or red par- 
tridges, or pyramids of gingerbread and cakes. People are pushing 
in, or pushing out at every door; Italians and French, soldiers or 
peasants ; heaps of maccaroni, of marchpane, and other dainties, 
are beginning to disappear. In the dark and narrow staircases, 
people rub quarrelsomely against each other; some even com- 
pelled, by the rapacity of their neighbours, to raise over tlieir 


PIC CIOL A. 


75 


heads the food they are carrying; while a cleverer hand and 
longer arm than their own, makes off, unperceived, with the 
savoury burden : — whether a buttered loaf, figs, grapes, oranges, 
a Turin ham, a larded quail, a force-meat pie, or an excellent 
stvfato, in its tureen ; — when cries of indignation, or shrieks of 
distress, accompanied by mockeries and loud laughter, resound 
on every side. The thief, in the ascending line upon the stair- 
case, satisfied with his plunder, tries to turn back, and run away. 
The victim, in the descending line, robbed of his dinner, attempts 
to return, and furnish himself with new provisions; and the flux 
and reflux of the crowd, disorganized by these irregular move- 
ments, is pushed partly into the street, and partly into the ware- 
house on the second story, amid oaths, imprecations, and peals of 
laughter; while their discomfiture is hailed, with added uproar, by 
the drinkers already established in the wine-shops of the ground 
floor, in defiance of the sage counsels of the monks. 

From one room to another, among tables covered with dishes, 
and surrounded with guests, are seen circulating the hostess and 
giannine, or waitresses of the house; some with gay-coloured 
aprons, powdered hair, and the coquettish little poniard, which 
forms part of their holiday costume; others with short petticoats, 
long braids of hair, naked feet, and a thousand glittering orna- 
ments of tinsel or gold. 

But to these animated scenes in the village or the road, — the 
chamber or the street, — to these cries, songs, exclamations, the 
noise of music, dancing, talking, and the jingling of plates and 
glasses, other sounds of a different nature are about to succeed. 

In an hour the thundering noise of cannon will be heard ; can- 
non almost harmless, indeed, and likely only to break the windows 
of the houses. The little street wdll echo with the w'ord of com- 
mand, and every house be eclipsed by the smoke of volleys of 
musketry, charged with powder. Then, beware of pillage, unless 
every remnant of provision has been placed in safety; nay, let the 
gay giannina look to herself: for a mimic war is apt, in such par- 
ticulars, to imitate its prototype. In great particulars, however, 
no less : for nothing can exceed the majesty of the preparations 
for the sham-fight upon the plain of Marengo. 

A magnificent throne, planted round with tri-coloured standards, 
is raised upon one of the few hillocks wdiich diversify the field.’ 
Already the troops, in every variety of uniform, are defiling to- 
wards the spot. The trumpet appeals to the cavalry ; the rolling 
of drums seems to cover the whole surface of the plain, which 
trembles under the heavy progress of the artillery and ammuni- 
tion-wagons. The aide-de-camps, in their glittering uniforms, are 
galloping hither and thither; the banners waving to the wind, 
which causes, at the same time, a pleasing undulation of the fea- 


76 


P I C C I O L A . 


thers, aigrettes, and tri-coloured plumes; while the sun, that ever- 
present guest at the fetes of Napoleon, that radiant illustrator of 
the pomps and vanities of the empire, casts its vivid reflections 
upon the golden embroideries, the brass and bronze of the cannon, 
helmets, cuirasses, and the sixty thousand bayonets bristling the 
tumultuous field. 

By degrees, the troops, arriving with hurried march at the ap- 
pointed spot, continue to force backward, in a wild semi-circle of 
retreat, the crowds of curious spectators, broken up like the rip- 
pling billows of the ocean, by the progress of one enormous wave ; 
while a few horsemen charging along the line, proceed to clear 
the field for action. 

The village is now deserted ; the gay tents are struck, the tres- 
tles removed, the songs and clamours reduced to silence. On all 
sides are to be seen, scattered along the vast circuit of the plain, 
men interrupted in their sport or repast, and women dragging 
away their children, terrified by the flashing sabres, or loud neigh- 
ing of the chargers. 

It is no difficult matter to discern, by attentively examining the 
countenances of the men still collected under the same colours, 
to which among them the orders of the general-in-chief. Marshal 
Larines, has assigned, in the coming fray, the glory of victory, — 
to which the duty of being vanquished ; while the gallant marshal 
himself, followed by a numerous Hat major, is seen tracing and 
reconnoitring the ground, on which it has been already his lot to 
figure with such distinction. He now distributed to each brigade 
its part in the coming battle; taking care, however, to omit in the 
representation, the blunders of that great and terrible day, the 14th 
of June, 1800: for, after all, it is but a delicate flattery in mili- 
tary tactics, a madrigal, composed with salvos of artillery, which 
is about to be recited in honour of the new sovereign of Italy. 

The troops now proceed to form into line, deploy, and form 
again, at the word of command ; when military symphonies are 
heard from the side of Alexandria; vague murmurs increase from 
the mass of human population, which, protected by the streams of 
the 7'anaro, the Bormida, the Orba, and the ravines of Tortona, 
form the moving girdle of the vast arena. Suddenly, the drums 
beat to arms; cries and huzzas burst from amid circling clouds 
of dust; sabres glitter in the sunshine; muskets are shouldered, 
as if by a mechanical movement; while a brilliant equipage, 
drawn by eight noble horses, caparisoned and emblazoned with 
the arms of Italy and France, conveys to the foot of their throne, 
the Emoeror and Empress — Napoleon and Josephine. 

The Emperor, after receiving homage from all the deputations 
of Italy, the envoys of Lucca, Genoa, Florence, Rome, and even 


PICCIOLA. 


77 


Prussia, mounts impatiently on horseback ; and, instantaneously, 
the whole plain is overspread with fire and smoke. 

Such were the sports of the youthful hero! War for his pas- 
time, war for the accomplishment of his puissant destinies ! No- 
tliing less than war could satisfy that ardent temperament, formed 
for conquest and supremacy, to which the subjugation of the 
whole world would alone have left an hour of leisure 1 

An officer, appointed by the Emperor, stood explaining to Jose- 
jffiine, as she sat solitary on her throne, half terrified by the spec- 
tacle before her, the meaning of the various manceuvres, and the 
object of every evolution. He showed her the Austrian general, 
Melas, expelling the French from the village of Marengo, over- 
powering them at Pietra-Buona, at Castel-Ceriola; and Bonaparte 
suddenly arresting him in the midst of his victorious career, with 
only nine hundred men of the consular guard. Her attention 
was next directed to one of the most important movements of the 
battle. 

The republicans appear to be giving way, when Desaix sud- 
denly appears on the Tortona road; and the terrible Hungarian 
column, under Zach, marches to meet him. But, while the offi- 
cer was yet speaking, Josephine’s attention is diverted from the 
military movements, by a sort of confusion around her; on de- 
manding the cause of which, she is informed that “ a young girl, 
having imprudently cleared the line of military operations, at the 
risk of being crushed by the artillery, or trampled by charges of 
cavalry, is creating farther confusion by her obstinacy in pressing 
towards the presence of her majesty, the Empress-Q,ueen^’ 


CHAPTER II. 

Teresa, for the intruder was no other than the daughter of 
Girardi, had been for a moment overcome by the intelligence she ^ 
received at Turin of the departure of the Emperor for Alexan- 
dria. But it was fatigue rather than discouragement which made 
her pause ; and nothing but the recollection that an unhappy cap- 
tive was dependent upon her for the accomplishment of his only 
wish on earth, would have urged her forward upon her perilous 
errand. Without regard, therefore, to her “weariness or loss of 
time, she signified to the guide her intention of proceeding at 
once to Alexandria. 

“ To Alexandria ! ’Tis twice as far as we have come already 1” 
cried the man. 

7 * 


78 


P I C C I 0 L A. 


“No matter, we must set out again immediately.” 

“ I, for my part, shall not set out again before to-morrow,” re- 
plied the guide; “and then, only to return to Fenestrella; so a 
pleasant journey to you, signora !” 

All the arguments she could use, were unavailing to change his 
determination. The man, who had enveloped himself in the iron 
obstinacy of the Piedmontese character, speedily unsaddled his 
horses, and laid himself down betw'een them in the stable, for a 
good night’s rest. 

But Teresa, firmly devoted to her enterprise, would not now 
recede from the undertaking. Having made up her mind to pur- 
sue her journey, she entreated the landlady of the inn in the 
Dora Grossa, where she had put up, to procure her the means 
of proceeding to Alexandria without a moment’s delay; and the 
hostess instantly despatched her waiters in various directions 
through the city in search of a conveyance; but without success! 
From the Suza gate to that of the Po, from the Porta Nuova to 
that of the palace, not a horse, carriage nor cart, public or pri- 
vate, was to be seen; all had long been engaged, in consequence 
of the approaching solemnization at Alexandria. 

Teresa now gave herself up to despair ! Absorbed in anxious 
thought, she stationed herself with downcast looks on the steps 
of the inn, where luckily the gathering darkness secured her 
from recognition by the inhabitants of her native city, when sud- 
denly, the sound of approaching wheels became audible, accom- 
panied by the tinkling of mule-bells ; and at the very door where 
she was standing, there appeared two powerful mules drawing one 
of those long caravans in use among travelling merchants; of 
which the boxes, closed by heavy padlocks, are made to open and 
form a movable shop; but the only accommodation of which, 
for passengers, consists in a narrow leathern seat in front, half 
under cover of a small awning of oil-cloth. 

The man and woman, owners of the cart and its merchandise, 
having alighted, began to stretch their arms and yawn aloud; 
stamping with their feet by way of rousing themselves after a 
long and heavy slumber. At length, having familiarly saluted the 
hostess, they took refuge in the chimney-corner, holding out their 
hands and feet towards the vine-stocks blazing on the hearth; 
and after ordering the mules to be unharnessed and carefully 
attended to, they began to congratulate each other on the conclu- 
sion of their tedious journey, ordered supper, and talked of bed 

The hostess, too, was preparing for rest. The yawning waiters 
closed up the doors and window-shutters; and poor Teresa, 
watching with tearful eyes all these preparations, thought only of 
the hours that were passing away, the dying (lower, and the de- 
spair of the Count de Charney. 


PICCIOL A. 


79 


“A night, a whole night!” she exclaimed; a night of which 
every minute whll be counted by that unhappy man ; while / shall 
be safe asleep. Nay, even to-morrow, it will be perhaps impossi- 
ble for me to find a conveyance 1” 

And she cast her wistful eyes upon the two travellers, as if her 
last hope lay in their assistance. But she was still ignorant of 
the road they w’ere to take, or whether they could or would be 
troubled with her company ; and the poor girl, unaccustomed to 
find herself alone among strangers, still less among strangers of 
such a class, impelled by anxiety, but withheld by timidity, ad- 
vanced a step towards them, then paused, mute, trembling, and 
undecided; when she was startled by the approach of a female 
servant, holding a candle and a key, who pointed out to her the 
room into which she was to retire for the night. Forced by this 
proposition to take some immediate step, Teresa put aside the 
arm of the giaiinina, and advancing towards the couple, engaged 
in munching their supper, entreated pardon for the interruption, 
and inquired what road they were to take on quitting Turin. 

“ To Alexandria, my pretty maid,” replied the woman, starting 
at the question. 

“ To Alexandria ! ’Twas then my guardian angel who brought 
you hither!” cried Teresa, overjoyed. 

“ I wish he had picked out a better road, then, signorina,” 
c^ied the woman, “ for we are all but ground to powder !” 

“ But what do you want with us? How can we serve you?” 
interrupted the man. 

“ Urgent business carries me to Alexandria. Can you give me 
a cast?” inquired Teresa. 

“ Out of the question,” said the wife. 

“ 1 will pay you handsomely ; two pieces of St. John the Bap- 
tist; that is, ten livres of France.” 

“ I don’t know how we could manage it,” observed the man. 

In the first place, the bench is so narrow that it will be scarcely 
possible to sit three; though I own, signorina, ’tis no great mat- 
ter of room you will take up. In the next place, we are going 
only as far as the Mercato of Renigano, near Asti, which is only 
half-way to Alexandria.” 

“ No matter,” cried Teresa; “ convey me only so far as to the 
gates of Asti. But we must set out this very night — this very 
moment.” 

“ Impossible ! quite impossible !” exclaimed both husband and 
wife at the same moment. “ We made no bargain of our night’s 
rest.” 

“ The sum shall be doubled,” said Teresa, in a lower voice, 

‘ if you will only oblige me.” 

The man and the woman interchanged looks of interrogation. 


80 


PICCIOLA. 


‘‘No,” cried the wife, at last; “ we shall fall ill of fatigue on the 
road. Besides, Losca and Zoppa want rest. Do you wish to kill 
the poor mules?” 

“ Four pieces, remember !” murmured the husband. “ Four 
pieces !” 

“ What is that to the value of Losca and Zoppa !” 

“Double price, recollect, for only half the fare, and no danger 
to the beasts.” 

“ Pho ! pho! a single Venetian sequin \s yfoxi\i iwo parpaiole 
of Genoa.” 

Nevertheless, the notion of four crowns to be earned so easily 
was not without its charm for either wife or husband, and at last, 
after farther objections on one side, and supplications on the other, 
the mules were brought out and re-harnessed. Teresa, enveloped 
in her mantle, to protect her from the night air, arranged herself 
as well as she could on the bench between the grumbling couple; 
and at length they set off on their expedition. All the clocks in 
Turin were striking eleven as they passed the gate of the city. 

In her impatience to arrive and procure good tidings for trans- 
mission to Fenestrella, Teresa would fain have found herself car- 
ried away by the speed of impetuous coursers towards Alexandria. 
But alas! the vehicle in which she had secured a place lumbered 
heavily along the road. The mules paced steadily along, lifting 
their legs with measured precision, so as to put in motion the little 
chime of bells, which imparted a still cooler character to the non- 
chalance of their movements. For some time, indeed, the fair 
traveller took patience, hoping the animals would become gradu- 
ally excited, or that the driver might urge them with a touch of 
the whip. But finding his incitement limited to a slight clicking 
of the tongue, she at length took courage to inform him that it 
was essential to make all speed towards Asti, that she might ar- 
rive by day-break at Alexandria. 

“ Take my word for it, my pretty maid,” replied the man, “ that 
'tis not a whit more amusing to us than to yourself, to pass the 
night in counting the stars. But the cobbler must stick to his 
last. My cargo, young lady, consists of crockery ware, which I 
am conveying for sale to the fair of Renigano, and if my mules 
were to take to the trot, I should have only potsherds to produce 
at the end of my journey.” 

“Are you, then, a crockery merchant?” exclaimed Teresa, in 
a tone of consternation. 

“ China merchants,” remonstrated the wife. 

“Alas! alas!” exclaimed the disappointed girl, — “is it then 
impossible for you to go a little faster?” 

“ Except by knocking to pieces my whole freight.” 

“It is so important for me to arrive in time at Alexandria!” 


PICCIOLA. . 


81 


“ And for us to keep an eye to our goods.” 

As an act of concession, however, he condescended to bestow 
a few additional clickings upon his beasts ; but the mules were 
loo well broken to their pace, to risk their master’s property by 
quickening their speed. 

Teresa now began to reproach herself with inconsideration, in 
not having acquainted herself with the length of time necessary 
to reach Asti, or personally attempted to discover in Turin some 
more expeditious mode of conveyance. But she had nothing now 
left for it but patience ! The vehicle jogged on at its accustomed 
rate, Losca and Zoppa soon managed to take the soft sides of the 
road, avoiding the rough jumbling of the pavement ; and at length, 
the merchant and his wife, after a few mutual consultations re- 
specting their chance of success at the fair of Renigano, relapsed 
into silence ; in the midst of which, soothed by the darkness, op- 
pressed by the cold, and lulled by the monotonous tinkling of the 
rnule-bells, Teresa was overpowered with drowsiness. Her head, 
which wandered in search of a resting-place from the shoulder of 
the driver to that of his wife, at length inclined heavily on her 
own bosom. 

“ Lean upon me, my poor child ; and happy dreams to you !” 
said the man, in a compassionate tone; and having accepted his 
offer, the overwearied Teresa was soon in a deep sleep. 

When she opened her eyes again, daylight was shining brightly 
upon her ! Startled to find herself in the open air, on the high 
road, she strove to recall her bewildered recollections; and on 
attaining perfect consciousness, perceived with horror that the 
vehicle was standing still, and appeared to have been some time 
stationary. The merchant, his wife, the very mules were fast 
asleep; not the slightest sound proceeded from the chime of 
bells! 

Teresa now perceived at some distance on the road they had 
been traversing, the pinnacles of several steeples; and through 
the fantastic grouping of the morning mists, fancied she could 
discern the heights' of the Superga, the Chateau of Mille Fiori, 
the Vigna della Regina, the Church of the Capuchins, all the rich 
adornments of the noble hills overhanging Turin. 

“Merciful Heaven!” vociferated the poor girl, — “we have 
scarcely got beyond the suburbs!” 

Roused by this exclamation, the driver rubbed his eyes and 
hastened to reassure her. “ We are approaching Asti,” said he. 
“The steeples you see behind you are those of Renigano. No 
cause to find fault with Losca and Zoppa; they can only just have 
begun their nap. Poor beasts ! — they have earned their rest hardly. 
Heaven send they may not have profited by mine, to make a trot 




P I C C I 0 L A . 


of it. Teresa smiled. “ Gee ! — away with you, jades !” he con- 
tinued, with a crack of the whip which awoke both his wife and 
the mules. And soon afterwards, at the gates of Asti, the worthy 
china-man took leave of his passenger, assisted her to alight, and 
after signing the cross over the twenty livres he received for her 
fare, turned straight round with his mules, and made oif delibe- 
rately for Renigano. 

Half of her way to Alexandria was thus accomplished ; but, 
alas! it was now scarcely possible to arrive in time for the levee 
of the Emperor. “Yet no doubt an Emperor must be late in 
rising I” thought Teresa ; and oh ! how she longed to thrust be- 
low the horizon again the sun which w'as just making its impor- 
tunate appearance ! Expecting that every thing around her would 
bear tokens of her own agitation, she fancied the whole popula- 
tion of Asti must be already astir, in preparation for a journey to 
Alexandria; and that amid the confusion of carriages and carts 
about to take the road, it would be easy to secure a place in some 
public conveyance. 

What, therefore, was her astonishment, on entering the town, 
to find the streets still silent and deserted ; and the sun scarcely 
yet high enough to shine on more than the roofs of the highest 
houses and the dome of the church ! It occurred to her at that 
moment, that one of her maternal relations resided at Asti, who 
might render her assistance ; and perceiving through the ground- 
floor window of a mean-looking house, the red glimmering of a 
fire, she knocked and ventured to inquire her way to the abode 
of her kinsman. A harsh voice answered her through the window 
that, for the last three months, the individual in question had been 
residing at his country-house at Monbercello; and thus disap- 
pointed, and alone in the solitary streets of a strange town, Te- 
resa began to feel terrified and uneasy. To reanimate her cou- 
rage, she turned towards a Madonna, before which, in an adjoin- 
ing niche, a lamp was burning, and breathed her morning prayer. 
Scarcely had she concluded her orisons, when she was startled 
by the sound of approaching footsteps, and a man soon made his 
appearance. 

“Can you tell me of a conveyance to Alexandria?” said she, 
.civilly accosting the stranger. 

“ Too late, my pretty one 1 every cart and carriage has been 
bespoken this week past!” he replied, and hastened on his way. 

A second man came by, to whom Teresa ventured to address 
the same inquiry. But this time, the answer was delivered in a 
harsh and reproving tone. 

“Y'ou want to be running after the French, then, razza malcy 
dcttaV' cried he; making off* after his companion. 


P I C C I 0 L A . 


83 


Teresa stood silent and intimidated at the accusation. At last, 
perceiving a young workman singing as he proceeded gaily to his 
business, she ventured to renew her inquiries. 

“Aha, signorina !” cried he, in a tone of bantering, “ you must 
needs make one in the battle, eh? But there will be little room 
left yonder for pretty damsels; better stay with us here, at Asti. 
’Tis a fete to-day. The dancing will begin early in the after- 
noon; and the drudi hallarini will fall to breaking each other’s 
heads, to have you for a partner. Faith, you are worth the trouble 
of a fight! Eh! what say you to a skirmish in your honour?” 

And, approaching Teresa Girardi, he was about to throw his 
arm round her waist; but, startled by her indignant glance and 
exclamation, desisted, and resumed his song and his occupation. 

A fourth, a fifth; now traversed the street, but the poor girl no 
loiiger hazarded an inquiry ; but kept watching every opening 
door, and peeping into every courtyard in hopes to find some car- 
riage in waiting. At length, by especial favour', she managed to 
obtain a place as far as Annone. Between Annone and Felizano 
— between Felizano and Alexandria — she was perplexed by a 
thousand farther difficulties. But with courage and perseverance, 
all were at length surmounted, and she arrived happily afAlex- 
andria. As she anticipated, the Emperor had already taken his 
departure for Marengo; and without pausing a moment for de- 
liberation, she followed the crowd which was pouring from the 
suburbs along the road towards the field of battle. 

Hurried on with the multitude, pressed and jostled on all sides, 
watching eagerly for openings in the crowd, skirting the outer- 
most edges of the road, Teresa neglected no opportunity of push- 
ing forward. Undisturbed by the clamour of the trumpets, the 
sports of the merry-andrews, or the discourses of the monks, she 
pursued her way in the midst of the laughing, yelling, shouting 
populace, which went leaping on in the heat and dust; — a poor 
solitary stranger, apart from the sports and the joys of the day, — 
her countenance anxious, — her eye haggard, — and raising her 
hand at intervals to wipe away the dew from her weary brows. 

But the whole force and fortitude of Teresa’s mind were de- 
voted to her progress. She has scarcely even found a moment 
for the contemplation of the farther means to be adopted. But a 
halt being suddenly imposed upon the crowd on reaching the out- 
skirts of the field, she began to reflect on the uneasiness the pro- 
longation of her absence would cause to her father (since the 
guide who had deserted her at Turin would not be permitted to 
enter the prison). She thought. of Charney accusing his messen- 
ger of neglect and indiflerence ; then felt for the petition in her 
bosom, apprehensive that, by some unlucky chance, it might have 
escaped her. 


84 


PICCIOLA. 


At the idea of her father grieving over the unwonted absence 
of his child, tears rushed into the eyes of Teresa; and it was 
from a reverie produced by these painful emotions, that she was 
recalled to herself by the cries of joy bursting from the surround- 
ing multitude. An open space had been formed just beside the 
spot where she was resting, around which the crowd seemed cir- 
cling; and the moment Teresa turned her head to ascertain the 
cause of the tumult, her hands were seized, and in spite of her 
resistance, her depression, her fatigue, she found herself com- 
pelled to take part in a farandola, which went whirling along the 
road, recruiting all the pretty girls and sprightly lads who could 
be involved in the diversion. 

Vexatious as was the interruption, Teresa at length found 
means to disengage herself from such unsatisfactory society ; and 
having contrived by a painful effort to push her way through the 
crowd, she at length obtained a glimpse of the vast plain glitter- 
ing with troops; and her eyes having wandered for some minutes 
over the splendid army, paused upon the little hillock occupied 
by the imperial court. At the sight of the throne, the aim and 
end of her perilous journey, Teresa’s heart leaped for joy ; her 
courage returned, her strength seemed renewed. All her preced- 
ing cares were forgotten. But how to attain the wished-for spot ? 
How to traverse those battalions of men and horses ? There was 
madness in the very project ! 

But that which at first sight presented an obstacle, soon appear- 
ed to farther her intentions. The foremost ranks of the crowd 
pouring in torrents from Alexandria, having deployed to the right 
and left, on reaching the plain, were gradually gaining the banks 
of the Tanaro and the Bormida; where, at one moment, they 
pushed on so impetuously as to seem on the point of taking pos- 
session of the field of battle. A small body of cavalry instantly 
galloped towards the spot, waving their naked sabres, and by 
the plunging of their chargers causing the terrified crowd to re- 
turn to the limits assigned them. The intruders evacuated, the 
territory as rapidly as they had gained it, with the exception of a 
single individual : — that individual was Teresa Girardi ! 

In an adjacent hollow of the plain, surrounded by a strong 
quickset hedge, and sheltered by a small thicket of trees, flowed 
a spring of limpid water; towards which, thrust onwards by the 
crowd of spectators, the poor girl, whose eyes were fixed upon 
the throne in the distance, found herself irresistibly impelled. 
Apprehensive every moment of being crushed in the throng, she 
seized in her arms the trunk of the nearest poplar tree; and clas- 
ing her eyes, like a child who fancies the danger has ceased to 
exist which it is not obliged to look upon, — remained motionless, 
her hearing confused by the rustling of the surrounding foliage. 


PICCIOL A. 


&5 

The advance and retreat of the mob was, in fact, so instantane- 
ous, that when Teresa re-opened her eyes, she was quite alone, 
separated from the troops by the hedge and thicket, and from the 
crowd by a column of dust, produced by the last detachment of 
fugitives. Throwing herself at once into the little copse, she 
found herself in the centre of about twenty poplar and aspen 
trees, overshadowing a crystal spring, welling out of the ground 
over a bed of ivy, moss and celandine, till, bubbling onward in a 
silver thread, it gradually formed a brook capable of traversing 
the plain, over which its course was defined by painted tufts of 
blue forget-me-not, and the clusters of the white ranunculus. 
The refreshing exhalations of the shady spot assisted to restore 
the self-possession and strength of the exhausted girl. Teresa 
’^elt as though she had reached an oasis of verdure in the desert, 
sheltered from dust, and heat, and disturbance. 

Meanwhile the plain has become suddenly quiet; she hears 
neither the word of command, the huzza of the crowd, nor the 
neighing of the horses. All she can discern is a singular move- 
ment overhead ; and, looking up, Teresa perceives every bough 
and spray of the trees to be covered with flights of sparrows, 
driven to shelter from all quarters of the plain by the alarming 
movement of the troops and the incursions of the crowd. The 
poor birds, like the poor girl contemplating them, have taken 
refuge in that verdant solitude, their little wings and throats ap- 
parently paralysed by affright ; for not a sound breaks from the 
band of feathered fugitives. Even on the advance of a brigade 
of cavalry towards the thicket, accompanied by the braying of 
trumpets, not a bird is seen to stir-. They appear to wait anx- 
iously for the result; while a similar feeling prompts Girardi’s 
daughter to look through the foliage upon the field. 

fier eyes are quickly attracted by files of troops, which appear 
to have cut off all communication between the thicket and the 
road. 

“After all,’’ thought the trembling Teresa, “ it is but a sham- 
fight that is about to take place; and if I have been imprudent in 
venturing hither, the Almighty, who knows the innocence of my 
heart, will keep me in time of trouble !” 

And, directing her attention through the opposite extremity of 
the thicket, she discerns, at the distance of about three hundred 
paces, the throne of Josephine and Napoleon. The space between, 
is occupied by the manoeuvres of the soldiers; but every now and 
then, the ground is sufficiently cleared to admit of passing. Teresa 
now takes courage ! — she feels that a decisive momenUs at hand. 
Having opened a way through the hedge, she is about to advance, 
when the disorder of her toilet suddenly occurring to her mind, 
brings blushes into her cheeks. Her tresses, unbraided and di- 


86 


r IC CIOLA. 


shevelled, are floating over her shoulders; her hands, her face, her 
person, are disfigured with dust. To present herself in such a 
condition before the sovereigns of Italy and France, were perhaps 
to insure her rejection, and the failure of her anxious mission. 

Re-entering the thicket, therefore, and drawing near to the 
spring, she unties her large Leghorn hat, shakes out and smooths 
down her raven hair, braids up the flowing tresses, bathes her 
hands and face; and, having completed her morning toilet, 
breathes a prayer to Heaven for its blessing upon the merciful 
purpose which has cast her, thus defenceless, into the ranks of an 
army. 

While watching for an auspicious moment to recommence her 
course, the stunning detonations of the cannon roar, from twenty 
different points, into her ears. The ground seems to tremble 
under her feet; and, while the poor girl stands motionless with 
consternation, the scared birds, fluttering from the trees above, 
with discordant cries and bewildered wings, make otf for the 
woods of Valpedo and Voghera. 

The fight has begun ! Teresa, deafened by the roar of artillery 
and the universal clamour, stands transfixed, gazing towards the 
throne, which is sometimes concealed from her by clouds of smoke ; 
sometimes by a screen of lances or bayonets. 

After the lapse of half an hour, during which every idea seemed 
to abandon her mind, but that of indescribable terror, the energy 
of her soul resumed its force. She examined, with greater com- 
posure, the obstacles with which she is beset ; and decided that it 
may still be possible to attain the imperial throne. Two columns 
of infantry, prolonged into a double line, to which the flanks of 
the thicket form a centre, were beginning to engage in an ani- 
mated fire upon each other. Under cover of the clouds of smolce, 
she trusted to make her way between them, unobserved. Still, 
how’ever, Teresa trembled at the attempt, when a troop of hussars, 
burning with thirst, suddenly invaded her asylum, and the maiden 
hesitated no longer. Her courage was roused, the moment her 
modesty took the alarm. She rushed forth at once between two 
columns of infantry; and when the smoke began to subside, the ^ 
soldiers raised a cry of astonishment, on perceiving in the midst 
of them, the white dress and straw hat of a young girl, — a young 
and pretty Piedmontese, — whom each made it his immediate busi- 
ness to capture. 

At that moment, a squadron of cuirassiers was galloping up to 
re-enforce one of the lines; the captain of which was on the point 
of trampling down the unfortunate Teresa ; but, pulling up his 
horse in time, he gave her in charge to two soldiers of the line; 
not, however, without a few oaths and great wonder at such a i 
apparition on the field of battle. 


P 1 C C I 0 L A . 


87 


One of the two cuirassiers deputed to escort her to quarters, 
quickly raised her to his saddle; and it was thus she was conveyed 
to the rear of the hillock, where a few ladies belonging to the suite 
of the Empress were stationed, accompanied by an aid-de-camp 
and the corps diplomatique of the Italian deputations. 

Teresa now fancied that her enterprise was accomplished. She 
had surmounted too many difficulties to be discouraged by the few 
remaining; and when, on her demand to be admitted to the Em- 
peror, she was informed that he was on the field, at the head of 
the troops, she entreated an audience of the Empress. But this 
request appeared no less inadmissible than the other. To get rid 
of her importunities, the by-standers had recourse to intimidation, 
and Teresa’s courage rose against their efforts. Th'ey insisted 
that she should at least wait the conclusion of the evolutions; and 
were astonished to find her persist in forcing her way towards the 
throne. Detained and threatened, her struggles became the more 
vehement. It was then that, raising her voice in self-defence, its 
piteous accents reached the ear of Josephine, to which the voice 
of a female in distress and appealing to her protection, were never 
known to be addressed in vain. 



88 


FICCIOLA. 


CHAPTER III. 

Scarcely were the commands of the Empress issued that no 
farther obstruction should be offered to the young stranger, when 
the brilliant crowd opened, to yield a passage to Teresa Girardi, 
who appeared in the midst of the throng, in a suppliant attitude, 
as if scarcely aware of being released from the detention of her 
captors. 

But on a sign from Josephine — a gracious sign, instantly recog- 
nised by those around as a token of indulgence — the young Pied- 
montese was set at liberty; and, on finding herself free, Teresa 
rushed to the foot of the throne, breathless with agitation, and, 
bending low before the Empress, proceeded to unfold a handker- 
chief which she had taken from her bosom. 

“A poor prisoner, madam,” said she, “ implores the clemency 
of your majesty.” But, with every disposition to indulgence, it 
was impossible for the Empress to divine the meaning of the 
strange-looking handkerchief which Teresa Girardi, sinking on 
one knee, tendered to her hands. 

“Have you a petition to present to me?” demanded Josephine 
at last, of the trembling girl, in a tone of encouragement. 

“ This^ madam, is a petition ; this is the memorial of an unfortu- 
nate captive!” persisted Teresa, still holding up the handkerchief. 
But tears of terror and anxiety, flowing down her cheeks, almost 
concealed the smile which the gracious affability of the Empress 
had for a moment called into existence. 

“ Rise, my poor girl, rise 1” said Josephine, in a tone of com- 
passion. “You appear deeply interested in the welfare of the 
petitioner 1” 

Teresa blushed, and hung down her head. “ I have never even 
spoken to him, madam,” she replied : “ but he is so deserving of 
pity 1 If your majesty would deign to read the statement of his 
misfortunes — ” 

Josephine now unfolded the handkerchief, touched to the heart 
by the evidence of misery and destitution conveyed in such a sub- 
stitute for writing-paper. Pausing, however, after she had perused 
the first line of the petition, she exclaimed, “ But this is addressed 
to the emperor !” 

“And are you not his wife?” cried Teresa. “ Deign, deign to 
read on 1 Every moment is of consequence. Indeed, there is no 
time to be lost 1” 

The fight was now at the hottest. The Hungarian column, 


PICCIOLA. 


81 ) 


though exposed to the severe fire of Marmont’s artillery, was for- 
midable in its movements; Zach and Dessaix were face to face; 
and the result of their encounter was to decide the destinies of 
the battle, 'fhe cannonade became general ; the field seemed to 
vomit flames and smoke; while the clamour of the soldiers, 
uniting with the clang of arms, and call of trumpets, agitated the 
air like a tempest. And it was while all this was proceeding 
around her, that the Empress attempted to give her attention to 
the following lines : — 

“ Sire — 

“ The removal of two stones from the pavement of the court of 
my prison will scarcely shake the foundation of your empire ; and 
such is the favour I presume to ask of your majesty. It is not for 
myself I appeal to your protection. But in the stony desert in 
which I am expiating my offences against your government, a single 
living thing has solaced my sufierings, and shed a charm over my 
gloomy existence! A plant — a flower springing spontaneously 
among the stones of Fenestrella, is the object of my solicitude. 
Let not your majesty accuse me of folly — of madness; it needs to 
have been a prisoner, to appreciate the value of such a friend. To 
this poor flower am I indebted for discoveries which have dispelled 
the mists of error from my eyes, for my restoration to reason, for 
my peace of mind, nay, for my very life! It is dear to me, sire, 
as glory to yourself. 

“ Yet, at this moment, my precious plant is perishing before 
my eyes, for want of a little space for the expansion of its j-oots ; 
and the Commandant of Fenestrella would fain submit to the 
Governor of Turin my petition for the removal of the two misera- 
ble stones that impede its growth. By the time that wisdom has 
decided the question, the plant will be dead ; and it is therefore to 
your compassion, sire, I appeal for the preservation of my plant. 
Issue orders that may yet preserve it from destruction, and myself 
from despair. — I implore it on my bended knees ; and should you 
deign to favour my suit, the benefit vouchsafed by your majesty 
shall be recorded in the inmost depths of my heart ! 

“ I admit, sire, that this poor plant has softened the vengeance 
doomed by your majesty to fall upon my devoted head ; but it has 
also subdued my pride, and cast me a suppliant at your feet. From 
the height of your double throne, deign, therefore, to extend a 
pitying glance towards us. It is not for your majesty to appre- 
ciate the power exercised by solitary confinement over even the 
strongest heart, the most iron fortitude. I do not complain of my 
captivity ; I support my sentence with resignation. Be its duration 
as that of my own life; but spare, oh, spare my- plant! 

“ The favour I thus presume to implore, must be conceded, 
R* 


90 


P I C C I O L A . 


sire, on the spot, without the delay of a single hour ! On the 
brow of the human criminal, justice may hold her sword suspend- 
ed, in order to enhance the after-sentence of'pardon ; but nature’s 
laws are more prompt in their operation. Delay but a single day, 
and even the mighty power of your majesty will be unavailing to 
farther the petition of the prisoner of Fenestrella. 

“ ClIARNEY.” 

At that instant, a sudden discharge of artillery seemed to rend 
asunder the atmosphere, and immediately the thick smoke, cut 
into circles and lozenges by the thousand lightnings of the dis- 
charge, seemed to cover the field with a network of light and 
shade. But on the cessation of the firing, the curtain of smoke 
seemed gradually drawn aside; and a brilliant spectacle was given 
to view, sparkling under the radiance of the sun, — even that noble 
charge, in the original of which Desaix lost his life. Zach and 
his Hungarians, repulsed in front by Bondet, harassed on the left 
flank by the cavalry of Kellermann, were already thrown into dis- 
order : after which, the intrepid consul, re-establishing his line of 
battle from Castel-Ceriola to St. Julian, resumed the offensive, 
overthrew the imperialists at every point, and forced Melas to a 
speedy retreat. 

This sudden change of position, these grand movements of the 
army, this flux and reflux of the human tide, at the command of 
a single voice, the voice of a. chief, motionless and calm in the 
midst of the general disorder, might have sufficed to produce an 
impression on the coldest imagination. From the groups sur- 
rounding the throne, accordingly, burst cries of triumph, and ex- 
ulting acclamations; when the Empress, startled by the contrast 
afforded by these “ vivats” to the hoarse trproar of the battle-field, 
was instantly roused from her reverie to a sense of what was pass- 
ing around her. For to all those brilliant manoeuvres and im- 
posing spectacles, the future Queen of Italy had remained insen- 
sible; her feelings and looks alike preoccupied by the extraordi- 
nary memorial that still fluttered in her hand. 

Teresa Girardi, meanwhile, attentive to every gesture of the 
Empress, felt instantaneously reassured by the soft smile of sym- 
pathy which overspread the countenance of Josephine while pe- 
rusing the petition. With a beating heart; she stooped to imprint 
a grateful kiss on the hand extended towards her, a hand how pu- 
issant amid all its fragile fairness, for on its slender finger glit- 
tered the nuptial ring of Napoleon ! 

Dismissed by this gracious movement from the presence of the 
Empress, Teresa now hastened towards the women’s quarters : 
and as soon as the field of Marengo was cleared of its multitudes, 
proceeded to the nearest chapel, to tender to her S'overeign pro- 


PICCIOL A. 


91 


tectress,* the Holy Virgin, an offering of prayer and tears, the 
token of her heartfelt gratitude; for in the condescension of Jo- 
sephine she fancied she had obtained a pledge for the eventual 
fulfilment of her wishes. 


CHAPTER IV. 

The sympathy of the Empress-Queen had been, in fact, warmly 
excited by the memorial of the captive of Fenestrella. Every word 
of the petition conveyed the most touching appeal to her feelings. 
Josephine herself was an almost idolatrous lover of flowers; as 
the permanent advantages derived in France from her liberal en- 
couragement of botanical science and patronage of its professors, 
continue to attest. Escaping from the cares and splendours of 
sovereignty, often did the empress recede from the courtier throng, 
to watch the expansion of some rare exotic, in her fine conserva- 
tories at Malmaison. There was the favourite empire of Josephine ! 
She loved the imperial purple of the rich cactus, at that period a 
splendid novelty to European eyes, better than the hues of the 
rich mantle adorning her throne; and the delicate fragrance of 
her clustering magnolias, proved more intoxicating than the sooth- 
ing but fatal breath of courtly adulation. At Malmaison she 
reigned despotic over thousands of beauteous subjects, collected 
from all quarters of the globe. She knew them face by face, name 
by name; — was fond of disposing them in classes, castes, or regi- 
ments; and when some fresh subject presented itself for the first 
time at her levee, was able to interrogate the new-comer, so as to 
ascertain his family and connexions, and assign him an appropri- ' 
ate station in the community of which every brigade had its ban- 
ner, and every banner a fitting standard-bearer. 

Following the example of Napoleon, she respected the laws and 
customs of those she rendered tributary. Plants of all countries 
found their native soil and climate restored to them by her provi- 
dence. Malmaison was a world in miniature; within whose cir- 
cumscribed limits were to be found rocks and savannahs, — the 
soil of virgin forests and the sand of the desert, — banks of marl 
or clay, — lakes, cascades, and strands liable to inundation. From 
the heat of a tropical climate, you might fly to the refreshing cool- 
ness of the temperate zone; and in these varied specimens of at- 
mosphere and soil, flourished, side by side, the various races of 
vegetative kind, divided only by green edges or an intrenchment 
of glass windows. 

When Josephine held her field-days at Malmaison, the review 


92 


PICCIOLA. 


was indeed calculated to excite the tenderest associations. First 
in the ranks was the hydrangea, which had recently borrow^ed 
from her charming daughter its French name of Hortensia. Glory, 
too, found its reminiscences there, as well as maternal affection. 
Following the victories of Bonaparte, she contrived to reap her 
share in the plunder of conquered countries; and Italy and Egypt 
paid tribute to her triumphant parterres. Blooming in resplendent 
union at Malmaison were the soldanella of the Alps, — the violet 
of Parma, — the adonis of Castiglione, — the carnation of Lodi, — 
the willow^ and plane of Syria, — the cross of Malta, — the water- 
lily of the Nile, — the hibiscus of Palestine, — the rose of Damietta. 
Such were the conquests of Josephine : and of those, at least, 
France still retains the benefits ! 

But even in the midst of these treasures, Josephine still culti- 
vated, by predilection, a plant reminding her of her days of happy 
childhood ; that beautiful jasmine of Martinique, whose seeds, 
gathered and resown by her own hand, served to bring to her re- 
collection not only the sports of girlhood and the roof of her 
fathers, but her earliest home of wedded love. 

With such pursuits and attachments, how could she fail to ap- 
preciate the passion of the prisoner for his flower, — his only flower, 
— his only companion! The widow of Beauharnais was not al- 
ways the happy and prosperous inmate of a consular or imperial 
palace. Josephine has herself tasted the bitterness of captivity; 
and the lesson is not thrown away. 

Nor has she altogether forgotten the brilliant, successful, but 
proud and insouciant Count de Charney ; formerly so contemptu- 
ous amid the pleasures of the world, and so incredulous in the 
existence of human affections. To what is she to attribute the 
singular change in his style and temper? What influence has suf- 
ficed to soften that haughty character? He, who once refused the 
homage of his knee to the Most High, now kneels to a human 
throne to supplicate in utmost humility for the preservation of a 
plant! 

“ The flower which has wrought so great a miracle,” thought 
the Empress, with a smile, “ deserves to be preserved from de- 
struction !” And eager to accomplish her benevolent purpose, she 
grew impatient of the protraction of the fight, and would fain have 
put an end to the last evolutions, in order to hasten her measures 
in favour of her petitioner. 

The moment Napoleon, surrounded by his generals, made his 
reappearance, exhausted by his exertions, and doubtless expecting 
compliments from her lips, the Empress presented the handker- 
chief to his astonished eyes, — exclaiming, — “An order from your 
hand, sire; an order for the commandant of Fenestrella! and an 
express to despatch it to the fortress !” 


PICCIOL A. 


93 


In the earnestness of her purpose, her voice assumed an im- 
perial tone, and her eyes an expression of impatience, as if some 
new conquest were within reach, and it was her turn to assume 
command and authority. But after surveying her from head to 
foot with an air of surprise and dissatisfaction, the Emperor turned 
on his heel and passed on without a word. As if still reviewing 
his troops, he appeared only to be finishing his inspection by the 
last individual of the brigade. 

Impelled by the force of habit, he next proceeded to examine 
the field of action, unmoistened indeed with blood, but covered 
with trophies of the early harvest, cut down by his victorious 
troops : — fields of corn and rice were trampled or hacked into 
chaff! In some spots, the earth itself was ploughed into deep 
channels by the manoeuvres of the artillery ; while here and there, 
were scattered the buff-leather gloves of the dragoons, broken 
plumes, or shreds of gold lace; — nay, even a few limping foot- 
soldiers and chargers, lamed in the affray, still encumbered the 
ground. 

At one moment of the day, how'^ever, more serious consequences 
than these appeared imminent. The French soldiers appointed 
to occupy, as Austrians, the village of Marengo, resenting the 
part assigned them as beaten troops, had chosen to prolong their 
resistance beyond the period specified in the programme; and a 
violent struggle took place between them and their opponents. 
The two regiments happened to be irritated against each other by 
the jealousies of garrison rivalship; and mutual insults and chal- 
lenges having been exchanged on the spot, bayonets were crossed 
in earnest between the two corps. 

But for the immediate intervention of the general officers pre- 
sent, a terrible contest would have taken place; and the mimic 
fight become only too fatally a reality. With some difficulty, the 
troops were made to fraternise, by an exchange of gourds; and 
these being unluckily empty, in order to perfect the reconcilia- 
tion, the cellars of the village were laid under contribution. Ex- 
cess now succeeded to obstinacy, but a unanimous cry of “Five 
JJEnipereur” having been fortunately raised by the men, the whole 
breach of discipline was placed to the account of military enthu- 
siasm ; and, after twenty healths had been tossed off, the gallant 
Austrians consented to stagger defeated from the field ; while the 
victorious French made their triumphal entry into Marengo, 
dancing the farandola, singing the Marseillaise, and mingling 
occasimially in their hurrahs, the ..now forbidden cry of “ Ffyc la 
R^publique” But tlieir insubordination was now justly attributed 
to the enthusiasm of intemperance. 

’'J'he troops having been formed once more into line, Napoleon 
proceeded to a distribution of crosses of honour among the old 


94 


PIC CIOLA. 


soldiers, who, five years before, had fought with him on that 
memorable spot. A few of the more eminent of the Cisalpine 
magistrates also received decorations on the field : after which, 
accompanied by Josephine, the Emperor laid the first stone of a 
monument, intended to perpetuate the victory of Marengo; and 
the ceremonies of the morning accomplished, the whole court, 
followed by the whole army, took their way back towards Alexan- 
dria. 

All this time the destinies of Picciola remained undecided ! 


CHAPTER V. 

To conclude the solemnities of the day, a public banquet was 
offered to the Emperor and Empress by the city of Alexandria, in 
the Town Hall, which was splendidly decorated for the occasion; 
after which, their majesties, wearied by their exertions, retired to 
pass the evening in one of the private apartments allotted to their 
use. The Emperor and Empress were now together, attended 
only by the secretary of the former; and, while dictating his 
despatches, Napoleon continued to pace the room, rubbing his 
hands with an air of satisfaction. Josephine, meanwhile, stood 
beguiling the time allotted by her lord to the duties of empire, by 
admiring, in one of the lofty mirrors of the saloon, the elegant 
coquetry of her own dress, and the splendour of the jewels in 
which she was arrayed. 

After the departure of the secretary, the Emperor took his seat ; 
and, while resting his elbow on a table covered with crimson velvet, 
richly fringed with gold, he fell into a train of reflection, announced 
by the expression of his countenance, of a highly agreeable nature. 
But the silence in which he was absorbed was far from satisfac- 
tory to Josephine. She felt that he had deported himself harshly 
towards her that morning, in the affair of the Fenestrella memo- 
rial. But she was beginning to perceive that she had been pre- 
cipitate in pressing her request at an inauspicious moment ; and 
promised herself to repair the injury she might have done her 
protege, by referring, at a more convenient season, his petition to 
the Emperor. The happy moment, she fancied, was now ar- 
rived ! 

Seating herself at the table, exactly opposite to Napoleon, and 
resting, like himself, her chin upon her hand, she met his 
inquiring looks with a smile, and demanded the subject of his 
cogitations. 


PICCIOLA. 


95 


“Of what am I thinking?” replied the Emperor, in a cheerful 
tone — “that the imperial diadem is a very becoming ornament; 
and that I should have been much to blame if I had not added 
such a trinket to your majesty’s casket.” 

The smiles of Josephine subsided as he spoke, while those of 
the Emperor brightened. He was fond of repressing those ner- 
vous tremors and evil auguries on the part of the Empress, na’tu-. 
rally excited by the extraordinary change of condition which had 
elevated a simple subject to the imperial throne. 

“Are you not better pleased to salute me Emperor than gene- 
ral?” he persisted, without noticing her serious looks. 

“ I am ! — for the higher title endows you with the prerogative 
of mercy !” she replied ; “ and I have an appeal to make to your 
clemency.” 

It was now Napoleon’s turn to relapse into gravity. Knitting 
his brows, he prepared himself sternly for resistance; — ever on the 
watch lest the influence of Josephine over his mind should be- 
guile him into some culpabte weakness in matters of state. 

“ How often have you promised me,” said he, in a tone of 
severity, “to interfere no more with the course of public justice? — 
Do you suppose that the privilege of according pardon is assigned 
to sovereigns, that they may gratify the caprices of their private 
feelings? — Mercy should be exercised only to soften the too 
rigorous justice of the laws, or rectify the errors of public tri- 
bunals. To extend one’s hand in continual acts of forgiveness, is 
wantonly to multiply and strengthen the ranks of the enemies of 
government.” 

“ Nevertheless, sire,” remonstrated Josephine, concealing with 
her handkerchief the tendency to mirth which she could scarcely 
repress, “ you will certainly comply with the request I am about 
to make.” 

“ I doubt it.” 

“ And I persist in my opinion ; for it is an act of justice rather 
than of clemency, I implore at your hands. I demand that two 
oppressors should bo removed from the post they hold! Yes! 
sire, — let them be dismissed with ignominy ; — let them be con- 
demned, and discarded for ever from the service of your ma- 
jesty !” 

“ How, Josephine !” cried Napoleon, “ it is by your lips that for 
once I am instigated to severity? Have you become the advocate 
of punishment? Upon whom, pray, are you thus desirous to call 
down vengeance?” 

“ Upon two fla*gstones, sire, which are superfluous in the pave- 
ment of a courtyard !” replied the Empress, indulging, unre- 
strained, in the merriment she had so long found it difficult to 
repress. 


90 


PICCIOLA. 


“Two flagstones! are you making a jest of me?” cried Napo- 
leon, in a severe tone, piqued at supposing himself treated with 
levity by his wife. 

“ Never was I more truly in earnest,” replied Josephine, “ for 
on the removal of these two stones depends the happiness of a 
suffering human being. Let me entreat your majesty’s attention 
to a history that requires your utmost indulgence, both towards 
myself and its unfortunate object.” And without farther circum- 
locution, she proceeded to acquaint him with the particulars of 
her singular interview with Teresa Girardi, and the devoted ser- 
vices of the poor girl towards a friendless prisoner, whose name 
she studiously kept concealed. While enlarging on the sufferings 
of the captive, on his passion for his plant, and the disinterested- 
ness of his young and lovely advocate — all the natural eloquence 
of a humane and truly feminine heart flowed from her lips, and 
irradiated her speaking countenance. 

Impressed by the animation of her gestures, a respondent smile 
played upon the lips of the Emperor; but that smile, alas! was an 
exclusive tribute to the attractions and excellencies of his wife ! 


CHAPTER VI. 

During this tedious interval, the unhappy Charney was count- 
ing the hours, the minutes, the seconds, with the utmost impa- 
tience : he felt as if the minutest divisions of time were maliciously 
heaping themselves together, to weigh down the head of his de- 
voted flower ! 

Two days had now elapsed. The messenger brought back no 
tidings ; and even the venerable Girardi was growing uneasy, and 
beginning to deduce evil auguries from the absence of his daugh- 
ter. Hitherto, however, he had not named his messenger to the 
Count; and, while trying to awaken hope in the heart of his 
companion, experienced the mortification of hearing accusations 
against the zeal and fidelity, of the person to whom the mission 
had been intrusted. Girardi could no longer refrain from accusing 
himself in secret of having hazarded the safety of his child. 
“Teresa, my daughter, my dear daughter!” he exclaimed, amid 
the stillness of his gloomy chamber, “ what — what has become of 
you?” And, lo ! the third day came, and no Teresa made her 
appearance. 

When the fourth arrived, Girardi had not strength to show him- 
self at the window. Charney could not even catch a glimpse of 




PICCIOLA. 


97 


his fellow-prisoner ; hut had he lent a more attentive ear, he might, 
perhaps, have overheard the supplications, broken by sobs, ad- 
dressed to Heaven by the poor old man, for the safety of his only 
child. A dark veil of misery seemed suddenly to have overspread 
that little spot; where, but a short time before, in spite of the 
absence of liberty, cheerfulness and contentment diffused their 
enlivening sunshine. 

The very plant was progressing rapidly to its last; and Charney 
found himself compelled to watch over the dying moments of his 
Picciola. He had now a double cause for affliction; a dread of 
losing the object of his attachment, and of having degraded him- 
self by useless humiliation ; — if he should have humbled himself 
in the dust, only to be repulsed from the footstool of the usurper. 

As if the whole world were in a conspiracy against him, Ludo- 
vico, formerly so kind, so communicative, so genuine, seemed 
unwilling now to address to him a single word. Taciturn and 
morose, the gaoler came and went, passed through the court, or 
returned by the winding staircase, with his pipe in his mouth, as 
if to avoid uttering a syllable. He seemed to have taken a spite 
against the affliction of his captive. The fact was, that from the 
moment the refusal of the commandant had been made known, 
the gaoler began to prepare for the moment which he foresaw was 
about to take place before him, the alternative of his duty and his 
inclination. Duty, he knew, must eventually prevail ; and he 
affected sullenness and brutality, by way of gaining courage for 
the effort. Such is the custom of persons unrefined by the polish 
of education. In fulfilling whatever harsh functions may be as- 
signed them, they try to extinguish every generous impulse in 
their souls, rather than soften them by courtesy of deportment. 
Poor Ludovico’s goodness of heart was rarely demonstrated in 
words; and where kindly deeds were interdicted by those in au- 
thority over him, his secret compassion usually found vent in sur- 
liness towards the very victim exciting his commiseration. If his 
ill-humour should call forth resentment, so much the better : his 
duty became all the easier. War is indispensable between victim 
and executioner, — prisoner and gaoler. 

When the dinner hour arrived, Ludovico, finding Charney 
transfixed in mournful contemplation beside his plant, took care- 
not to present himself in the gay mood with which he was wont 
to accost the Count; sometimes sportively addressing his god- 
daughter as Giovanetta, fanciidctta” or inquiring after the 
health of the “Count and Countess;” but, traversing the court 
in haste, without noticing his prisoner, he pretends to suppose 
him in the chamber above. By some accidental movement, how- 
ever, on the part of Charney, Ludovico suddenly found himself 
face to face with the captive ; and was shocked to perceive the 
9 


98 


PICCIOLA. 


change which the lapse of a few days had effected in his counte- 
nance. Impatience and anxiety had furrowed his brow, and dis- 
coloured his lips, and wasted his cheeks; while the disorder of 
his hair and beard served to increase the wildness of his aspect. 
Against his will, Ludovico stood motionless, contemplating these 
melancholy changes; but, suddenly, calling to mind his previous 
resolutions, he cast an eye upon the flower, winked ironically, 
shrugged his shoulders, whistled a lively air, and was about to 
take his departure, when Charney murmured, in a scarcely recog- 
nisable voice, “ What injury have I done to you, Ludovico?” 

“ Me ! — done to me ! None, that I know of,” replied the gaoler, 
more deeply touched than he cared to show, by the plaintiveness 
of this apostrophe. 

“ In that case,” said the Count, advancing towards him and 
seizing him by the hand, “ be still my friend ! Aid me while 
there is yet time ! I have found means of evading all objections ! 
The commandant can have no farther scruples, — nay, he need 
not know a word of the matter. Procure me only a box of earth, 
— we will gently raise the stones for a moment and transplant the 
flower — ” 

“ Ta-ta-ta-ta-ta !” interrupted Ludovico, drawing back his hand. 
“ The devil take the gilly-flower, for aught I care ! She has 
done mischief enough already; beginning with yourself, who are 
about, I see, to have another fit of illness. Better make a pitcher 
of tisane of her before ’tis too late.” 

Charney replied by an eloquent glance of scorn and indigna 
tion. 

“If it were only yourself who had to suffer,” resumed Ludovi 
CO, “ you would have yourself to thank, and there would be an 
end on’t. But there is a poor old man, whom you have deprived 
of his daughter ; for Signor Girardi will see no more of his un- 
happy Teresa.” 

“ Deprived of his daughter !” cried the Count, his eyes dilating 
with horror, “ how? — in what manner?” 

“Ay! how? in what manner?” pursued the gaoler, setting 
down his basket of provisions, and taking the attitude of one 
about to administer a harsh reprimand. “ People lay the whip to 
the horses, and pretend to wonder when the carriage rolls on. 
People let fly the stiletto, and pretend to wonder when blood flows 
from the wound. Trondidio! O die frascheria! You choose 
to write to the Emperor — ’twas your own affair : you wrote. Well 
and good 1 You infringed the discipline of the prison, and the 
commandant will find ’tis time to punish you. Well and good 
again. But, because you must needs have a trusty messenger to 
convey your unlucky letter, nothing less would serve you than to 
•^employ the povera damigella on your fool’s errand !” 


PIC C I 0 LA. 


99 


How ! — you mean that Girardi’s daughter — ” 

“Ay, ay! open your eyes, and look surprised,” interrupted Lu- 
dovico. “ Did you suppose that your correspondence with the 
Emperor was to be conveyed by the telegraph? The telegraph, 
sir, has got other business on hand. All that I have got to tell 
you is, that the commandant has discovered the whole plot; per- 
haps through the guide, (for the Giovana could not hazard her- 
self alone on such an expedition.) And so she is forbid to re- 
enter the fortress. Her poor father will behold her face no more. 
And through whose fault, I should like to know?” 

Charney covered his face with his hands, and groaned aloud. 

“ Unhappy Girardi 1 have I, indeed, deprived thee of thine only 
consolation?” cried he, at last. Then, turning to Ludovico, he 
inquired whether the old man was apprised of what had befallen 
him. 

“ He has known it since yesterday,” replied the gaoler; “and 
no doubt loves you all the better. But make haste ! your dinner 
is getting cold !” 

Charney, overwhelmed with grief, sank upon his bench. A 
momentary pang suggested to him to crush Picciola at once, exe- 
cuting retributive justice upon her with his own hand. But he 
had not courage for a deed so ruthless ; and a faint hope already 
seemed to glimmer in the distance, for his favourite. The young 
maiden, who had thus generously devoted herself to serve him, 
must be already returned. Perhaps she had been able to ap- 
proach the Emperor? Yes! doubtless she has been admitted to 
the honour of an audience; and it is this discovery which has so 
irritated the commandant against her. The commandant may 
possibly have in his possession an order for the liberation of Pic- 
ciola! In that case how dares he venture on further delay? The 
commands of the Emperor must be obeyed. Blessings, bless- 
ings,” thought Charney, “ on the noble girl who has befriended 
us — the girl whom I have been the means of separating from her 
father! Teresa! sweet Teresa! how willingly would 1 sacrifice 
half my existence for thy sake — for thy happiness — nay, what 
would I not give for the mere power of opening to thee once 
again the gates of the fortress of Fenestrella !” 


CHAPTER VII. 

Scarcely half an hour had elapsed after the irttimation con- 
veyed by Ludovico, when two municipal officers, arrayed in theii 


100 


PIC CIOLA. 


tri-coloured scarfs of office, presented themselves, accompanied 
by the commandant, before the Count de Charney, and requested 
him to accompany them to his own chambei ; on arriving in 
which, the commandant addressed his prisoner with considerable 
pomposity and deliberation. 

The commandant was a man of dignified corpulency, having a 
round bald head, and gray and bushy whiskers. A deep scar, 
extending from his left eyebrow to the upper lip, seemed to divide 
his face in two. A long, blue, uniform coat, with prodigious 
skirts, buttoned closely to the chin, top-boots over his pantaloons, 
a slight tint of powder on his remnant of a braided pigtail, and 
scanty side-curls, spurs to his boots, (by way of distinction, 
doubtless, for the rheumatism had long constituted him chief pri- 
soner in his own citadel;) — such were the outward and visible 
signs of the dignitary, whose only warlike weapon was the cane 
on which his gouty limbs leaned for support. 

Appointed to the custody of prisoners of state alone, most of 
whom were members of families of distinction, the commandant 
piqued himself on his good breeding, in spite of frequent out- 
breaks of fury : and, in spite of certain infractions of prosody 
and syntax, on the chosen elegance of his language. He was up- 
right, moreover, as a pikestaff ; rejoiced in an emphatic and sonor- 
ous voice; flourished his hand when he attempted a bow, and 
scratched his head when he attempted a speech. Thus qualified 
and endowed, the brave Morand, captain and commandant of 
Fenestrella, passed for a fine soldierlike-looking man, and an effi- 
cient public functionary. 

From the courteous tone assumed in his initiatory address, and 
the professional attitude of the two commissaries by whom he was 
accompanied, Charney fancied that their sole business was to de- 
liver to him a reprieve for his unhappy Picciola. But the com- 
mandant’s next sentence consisted in an inquiry, whether, upon 
any specific occasion, the prisoner had to complain of his want of 
courtesy or abuse of authority. The Count, still flattering him- 
self that such a preamble augured well for the accomplishment of 
his hopes, certified all, and more than all, that civility seemed to 
require in reply to this leading question. 

“You cannot, I imagine, sir, have forgotten,” persisted the com- 
mandant, “ the care and kindness lavished upon you during your 
illness? If it was not your pleasure to submit to the prescriptions 
of the physicians appointed to visit you, the fault was neither theirs 
nor mine, but your own. When it occurred to me that your con- 
valescence might be accelerated by a greater facility for taking 
air and exercise, you were instantly allowed, at all times and sea” 
sons, access to the prison-court?” 

Charney inclined his head in token of grateful affirmation. But 


PICCIOLA. 101 

impatience of the good man’s circumlocution already caused him 
to compress his lips. 

“ Nevertheless, sir,” resumed the commandant, in the tone of a 
man whose feelings have been wounded, and whose advances were 
repaid with ingratitude, “ you have not scrupled to infringe the 
regulations of the fortress, of the tenor of which you could not 
have been ignorant; compromising me thereby in the eyes of 
General Menon, the governor of Piedmont; nay, perhaps, of his 
gracious majesty the Emperor himself. The memorial which you 
have contrived to place before him ” 

“Place before him!” interrupted Charney; “has he then re- 
ceived it?” 

“ Of course he has received it.” 

“And the result — the result 1” cried the Count, trembling with 
anxiety; “ what has been decreed?” 

“ That, as a punishment for your breach of discipline, you are 
to be confined a month in the dungeon of the northern bastion of 
the fortress of Fenestrella.” 

“But what said the Emperor to my application?” cried the 
Count, unable to resign at once all his cherished hopes of redress. 

“ Do you suppose, sir, that the Emperor has leisure for the con- 
sideration of any such contemptible absurdities?” was the disdain- 
ful reply of the commandant; on which Charney, throwing him- 
self in complete abstraction into the only chair the chamber hap 
pened to contain, became evidently unconscious of all that was 
passing around him. 

“ This is not all 1” resumed the commandant; “ your communi- 
cations with the exterior of the fortress, being thus ascertained, 
it is natural to suppose that your correspondence may have been 
more extensive than we know of, and 1 beg to inquire whether 
you have addressed letters to any person besides his majesty the 
Emperor ?” 

To this address Charney vouchsafed no reply. 

“An official examination of your chamber and effects is about 
to take place,” added the man in authority. “These gentlemen 
are appointed by the governor of Turin for the inquisitorial duty, 
which they will discharge punctually, according to legal form, in 
your presence. But previous to the execution of the warrant, I 
request to know whether you have any personal revelations to 
make? Voluntary disclosures, sir, might operate favourably in 
your behalf.” 

Still, however, the prisoner remained obstinately silent ; and the 
commandant, knitting his brows and contracting his high forehead 
into a hundred solemn wrinkles, assumed an air of severity, and 
motioned to the delegates of General Menon to proceed with their 
duty. They immediately began to ransack the chamber, from the 

9 # 


102 


• PICCIOLA. 



chimney and palliasse of the bed, to the linings of the coats of the 
prisoner ; while Morand paced up and down the narrow chamber, 
tapping with his cane every square of the flooring, to ascertain 
whether excavations existed for the concealment of papers or pre- 
parations for flight. He called to mind the escape of Latude and 
other prisoners from the Bastille; where moats, both deep and 
wide, walls ten feet thick, — gratings, counterscarps, drawbridges, 
ramparts bristled with cannon and palisades, sentinels at every 
postern, on every parapet, — had proved insufficient to baffle the 
perseverance of a man armed with a cord and a nail ! The Bas- 
tille of Fenestrella was far from possessing the same iron girdle of 
strength and security. Since the year 1796, the fortifications had 
been in part demolished, and the citadel was now defended only 
by a few sentries, planted on the external bastion. 

After a search prolonged as far as the limited space would 
allow, nothing of a suspicious nature was brought to light, with 
the exception of a small vial, containing a blackish liquid, which 
had probably served the prisoner for ink. Interrogated as to the 
means by which it came into his possession, Charney turned 




PICCIOLA. 


103 


towards the window, and began tapping with his fingers on the 
glass, without condescending to reply to the importunate querists. 

The dressing-case still remained to be examined; but, on being 
required to give up the key, the Count, instead of presenting it 
with becoming respect to the commandant, almost threw it into 
the hand extended towards him. 

Thus boldly defied in presence of his subordinates, the com- 
mandant disdained all farther attempts at conciliation. He was, 
in fact, suffocating with rage. His eyes sparkled, his complexion 
became livid, and he bustled up and down the little chamber, but- 
toning and unbuttoning his coat, as if to exhaust the transports of 
his repressed indignation. 

At length, by a spontaneous movement, the two sbirri, occupied 
in the examination of the casket, holding it in one hand and turn- 
ing over its contents with the other, advanced towards the window, 
to ascertain whether it contained secret drawers, and immediately 
exclaimed, in tones of triumph, “All ’s right ! The mystery is 
in our hands.” 

Drawing out from beneath the false bottom of the case a num- 
ber of cambric handkerchiefs, closely scribbled over and carefully 
folded, they were satisfied of having obtained possession of the 
proofs of a widely-organized conspiracy ; for at this profanation 
of the sacred archives so dear to him, Charney started up and ex- 
tended his hand to snatch back the treasures of which he saw 
himself despoiled. Then, struck by the consciousness of his own 
incapacity of resistance, he reseated himself in his chair, without 
uttering a syllable of remonstrance. 

But the impetuosity of his first movements was not lost upon 
the governor ; who saw at once that the documents which had 
fallen into his hands were of the highest importance in the estima- 
tion of the Count. The handkerchiefs, therefore, were deposited, 
on the spot, in a government despatch-bag, duly sealed and dock- 
eted. Even the soot-bottle and tooth-pick were confiscated to the 
state ! A report was drawn up of the proceedings which had taken 
place, to which the signature of Charney was formally demanded, 
— impatiently refused, — and the refusal duly recorded at the end 
of the document; after which, the commandant issued his man- 
date for the immediate transfer of the prisoner to the northern 
bastion. 

What vague, confused, and painful emotions prevailed, mean- 
while, in the mind of the prisoner ! Charney was alive only to a 
single stroke of his afflictions; a stroke which deadened his con- 
sciousness of all the rest. He had not so much as a smile of pity 
to bestow upon the imaginary triumph of the blockheads who were 
carrying off what they supposed to be the groundwork of a crimi- 
nal impeachment ; but which consisted in a series of scientific^ 


104 


PIC C 10 LA. 


observations upon the growth and properties of his plant; — Yes; 
even his tenderest recollections snatched from his possession ; and 
an impassioned lover required to give up the letters of his mistress, 
can alone enter into the despair of the captive. To preserve Pic- 
ciola from destruction, he had tarnished his honour, his self- 
esteem ; broken the heart of a benevolent old man : destroyed the 
happiness of-a gentle and lovely girl ; and of all that had sufficed 
to attach him to a life of wretchedness. Every trace is now 
effaced — every record destroyed — the very journal of those happy 
hours which he had enjoyed in the presence of his idol, is torn for 
ever from his possession ! 




CHAPTER VIII. 

The intervention of Josephine in Charney’s favour had not 
proved so efficient as might have been supposed. At the conclu- 
sion of her mild intercessions in favour of the prisoner and his 
plant, when she proceeded to place in the hands of Napoleon the 
handkerchief inscribed with his memorial, the Emperor recalled 
to mind the singular indifference — so mortifying to his self-love — 
with which, during the warlike evolutions of the morning at Ma- 
rengo, Josephine had cast her vacant, careless gaze upon the 
commemoration of his triumph. And thus predisposed to displea- 
sure, the obnoxious name of Charney served only to aggravate his 
ill-humour. 

“ Is the man mad ?” cried he, “ or does he pretend to deceive 
me by a farce? A Jacobin _^rned botanist? — about as good a 
jest as Marat descanting in’the tribune on the pleasures of a pas- 
toral life; or Couthon presenting himself to the Convention with 
a rose in his button-hole !” 

Josephine vainly attempted to appeal against the name of Ja- 
cobin thus lightly bestowed upon the Count; for, as she com- 
menced her remonstrance, a chamberlain made his appearance to 
announce that the general officers, ambassadors, and deputies of 
Italy, were awaiting their majesties in the audience-chamber; — 
where, having hastily repaired, Napoleon immediately burst forth 
into a denunciation against visionaries, philosophers, and liberals, 
mainly inspired by the recent mention of the Count de Charney. 
In an imperious tone, he threatened that all such disturbers of 
public order should be speedily reduced to submission ; but the 
loud and threatening tone he had assumed, which was supposed 
to be a spontaneous outbreak of passion, was, ip fact, a premedi- 


PICCIOL A. 


105 


tated lesson bestowed on the assembly ; and more especially on 
the Prussian ambassador-, who was present at the scene. Napo- 
leon seized the opportunity to announce to the representatives of 
Europe the divorce of the Emperor of the French from the prin- 
ciples of the French revolution! 

By way of homage to the throne, the subordinates of the Empe- 
ror hastened to emulate his new profession of faith. The general 
commandant at Turin, more especially, Jacques-Abdallah Menon, 
forgetting or renouncing his former principles, burst forth into a 
furious diatribe against the pseudo Brutuses of the clubs and ta- 
verns of Italy and France ; on which signal arose from the minions 
of the empire a unanimous chorus of execrations against all con- 
spirators, revolutionists, and more especially Jacobins; — till, 
overawed by their virulence, Josephine began to tremble at. the 
storm she had been unwittingly the means of exciting. At length, 
drawing near to the ear of Napoleon, she took courage to whis- 
per, in a tone of mingled tenderness and irony, — “What need, 
sire, of all these denunciations? — My memorial regards neither 
a Jacobin nor a conspirator; but simply a poor plant, whose plots 
against the safety of the empire should scarcely excite such vast 
tumults of consternation.” 

Napoleon shrugged his shoulders. “Can you suppose me the 
dupe of such absurd pretences?” he exclaimed. “This Charney 
is a man of high faculties and the most dangerous principles : — 
would you pass him upon me for a blockhead? — The flower, the 
pavement, the whole romance, is a mere pretext. The fellow is 
getting up a plan of escape 1 It must be looked to. Menon ! let 
a careful eye be kept upon the movements of those imprisoned for 
political offences in the citadel of Fenestrella. One Charney has 
presumed to address to me a memorial. How did he manage to 
forward his petition otherwise than through the hands of the com- 
mandant? Is such the discipline kept up in the state-prisons of 
the empire ?” 

Again the Empress ventured to interpose in defence of her 
protege. 

“ Enough, madam, enough of this man !” exclaimed the com- 
mander-in-chief; and discouraged and alarmed by the displeasure 
expressed in his words and looks, Josephine cast down her eyes 
and was silent from confusion. General Menon, on the other 
hand, mortified by the public rebuke of the Emperor,, was not 
sparing in the reprimand despatched to the captain-commandant 
of the citadel of Fenestrella; who, in his turn, as we have seen, 
vented his vexation on the prisoners committed to his charge. 
Even Girardi, in addition to the cruel sentence of separation from 
his daughter, (who on arriving full of hopes at the gate of the 
fortress, was commanded to appear there no more,) had been sub- 


106 


PICCIOLA. 


jected, like Charney, to a domiciliary visit ; by which, however, 
nothing unsatisfactory was elicited. 

But emotions more painful than those resulting from the for- 
feiture of his manuscripts, now awaited the Count ; as he traversed 
the courtyard on his way to the bastion with the commandant and 
his two acolytes, Captain Morand, who had either passed without 
notice on his arrival, the fences and scatfolding surrounding the 
plant, or was now stimulated by the arrogant contumacy of Char- 
ney to an act of vengeance, paused to point out to Ludovico this 
glaring breach of prison-discipline manifested before his eyes. 

What is the meaning of all this rubbish V’ cried he. “ Is sucl^, 
sir, the order you maintain in your department?” 

^^That, captain,” replied the gaoler, in a half-hesitating, half- 
grum’ ling tone, drawing his pipe out of his mouth with one hand, 
and raising the other to his cap in a military salute — “ that, under 
your favour, is the plant I told you of, — which is so good for the 
gout, and all sorts of disorders.” 

Then, letting fall his arm by an imperceptible movement, he 
replaced his pipe in its usual place. 

“ Death and the devil !” cried the captain, “ if these gentlemen 
were allowed to have their own way, all the chambers and courts 
of the citadel might be made into gardens, menageries, or shops, — 
like so many stalls at a fair. Away with this weed at once, and 
every thing belonging to it!” 

Ludovico turned his eyes alternately towards the captain, the 
Count, and the flower, and was about to interpose a word or two 
of expostulation. — “Silence!” cried the commandant ; “silence, 
and do your duty.” 

Thus fiercely admonished, Ludovico held his peace; removing 
the pipe once more from his mouth, he extinguished it, shook out 
the dust, and deposited it on the edge of the wall while he pro- 
ceeded to business. Deliberately laying aside his cap, his waist- 
coat, and rubbing his hands as if to gain courage for the job, he 
paused a moment, then suddenly, with a movement of anger, as if 
against himself or his chief, seized the haybands and matting, and 
dispersed them over the court. Next went the uprights which 
had supported them ; which he tore up one after the other, broke 
over his knee, and threw the pieces on the pavement. His former 
tenderness for Picciola seemed suddenly converted into a fit of 
abhorrence. 

Charney, meanwhile, stood motionless and stupefied, his eyes 
fixed wistfully upon the plant thus exposed to view, as if his looks 
could still afford protection to its helplessness. The day had 
been cool, the sky overclouded, and from the stem, which had ral- 
lied during the night, sprang several little healthy, verdant shoots. 
It seemed as though Picciola were collecting all her strength to die ! 


PICCIOL A. 


107 


To die! — Picciola! — his own, his only! — the world of his ex- 
istence and his dreams, the pivot on wbrnh revolved his very life, 
to be reduced to nothingness! Midway in his aspirations towards 
a higher sphere, the flight of the poor captive, over whose head 
heaven has suspended its sentence of expiation, is to be suddenly 
arrested ! How will he henceforward fill up the vacant moments 
of his leisure? — how satisfy the aching void in his own bosom? 
Picciola, the desert which thou didst people is about to become 
once more a solitary wilderness ! No more visions, no more 
hopes, no more reminiscences, no more discoveries to inscribe, 
no farther objects of affection ! — How narrow will his prison now 
appear — how oppressive its atmosphere — the atmosphere of a 
tomb, — the tomb of Picciola ! The golden branch, — the sibylline 
divining rod, which sufficed to exorcise the evil spirits by which 
he was beset, will no longer protect him against himself! The 
sceptic — the disenchanted philosopher, must return to his former 
mood of incredulity, and bear once more the burden of his bitter 
thoughts, with no prospect before him but eternal extinction ! 
No, — death were a thousand times preferable to such a destiny ! 

As these thoughts glanced through the mind of Charney, he be- 
held, at the little grated window, the shadow of the venerable 
Girardi. “ Alas !” murmured the Count, “ I have deprived him of 
all he had to live for; and he comes to triumph over my affliction, 
— to curse me — to deride me! And he is right; for what are sor- 
rows such as mine compared to those 1 have heaped upon his 
revered head?” 

Charney perceived the old man clasping the iron window-bars 
in his trembling hands; but dared not meet his eyes, and hazard 
an appeal to the forgiveness of the only human being of whose 
esteem he was ambitious. The Count dreaded to find that vene- 
rable countenance distorted by the expression of reproach or con- 
tempt; and when at length their glances met, he was touched to 
the soul by the look of tender compassion cast upon him by the 
unhappy father; — forgetful of his own sorrows in beholding those 
of his companion in misfortune. The only tears that had ever 
fallen from the eyes of the Count de Charney, started at that try- 
ing moment! But, consolatory as they were, he dried them hur- 
riedly as they fell, in the dread of exposing his weakness to the 
contempt and misapprehension of the men by whom he was 
surrounded. 

Among the spectators of this singular scene, the two sbirri alone 
remained indifferent to what was passing — staring vacantly at the 
prisoner, the old man, the commandant, and the gaoler ; wonder- 
ing what reference their emotions might bear to the supposed 
conspiracy, and nothing doubting that the mysterious plant, about 


108 


PICCIOLA. 


to be dislodged, would prove to have been a cover to some mo- 
mentous hiding-place. 

Meanwhile, the fatal operations proceeded. Under the orders 
of the commandant, Ludovico was attempting to take up the rustic 
bench, which at first seemed to resist his feeble efforts. 

“A mallet — take a mallet!” cried Captain Morand. 

Ludovico obeyed ; but the mallet fell from his hands. 

“ Death and the devil ! how much longer am I to be kept wait- 
ing?” now vociferated the captain; and the gaoler immediately 
let fall a blow, under which the bench gave way in a moment. 
Mechanically, Ludovico bent down towards his god-daughter, 
which was now alone and undefended in the court ; while the 
Count stood ghastly and overpowered, big drops of agony rising 
upon his brow. 

“ Why destroy it, sir; why destroy it? — you must perceive that 
the plant is about to die 1” — He faltered, descending once more to 
the abject position of a suppliant. But the captain replied only 
by a glance of ironical compassion. It was now his turn to re- 
main silent ! 

“ Nay, then,”, cried Charney, in a sort of frenzy, since it must 
needs be sacrificed, it shall die by no hand but mine !” 

“I forbid you to touch it!” exclaimed the commandant; and, 
extending his cane before Charney, as if to create a barrier 
between the prisoner and his idol, he renewed his orders tc 
Ludovico; who, seizing the stem, was about to uproot it from 
the earth. 

The Count, startled into submission, stood like an image of 
despair. 

Near the bottom of the stem, below the lowest branches, 
where the sap had got power to circulate, a single flower, fresh 
and brilliant, had just expanded ! — Already, all the others were 
drooping, withered, on their stalks; but this single one retained 
its beauty, as yet uncrushed by the rude hand of the gaoler. 
Springing in the midst of a little tuft of leaves, whose verdure 
threw out in contrast the vivid colours of its petals, the flower 
seemed to turn imploringly towards its master. He even fancied 
its last perfumes were exhaling towards him; and, as the tears 
rose in his eyes, seemed to see the beloved object enlarge, disap- 
pear, and at last bloom out anew. The human being and the 
flower, so strangely attached to each other, were interchanaina an 
eternal farewell ! 

If, at that moment, when so many human passions were called 
into action by the existence of an humble vegetable, a stranger 
could have entered, unprepared, the prison-court of Fenestrella, 
where the sky shed a sombre and saddening reflection, the aspect 


PICCIOLA. 


109 


of the officers of justice, invested in their tri-coloiired scarfs — of 
ihe commandant, issuing his ruthless orders in a tone of au- 
thority — would naturally have seemed to announce some frightful 
execution ; of which Ludovico was the executioner, and Charney 
the victim, whose sentence of death had just been recited to him. 
And see, they cdme! — strangers are entering the court; — two 
strangers, the one, an aide-de-camp of General Menon, the other, 
a page of the Empress Josephine. The dust with which their 
uniforms were covered, attests with what speed they have per- 
formed their journey to the fortress ; yet a minute more, and they 
had been too late ! 

At the noise produced by their arrival, Ludovico, raising his 
head, relaxed his grasp of Picciola, and confronted Charney face 
to face. Both the gaoler and the prisoner were pale as death ! 

The commandant had now received from the hands of the aide- 
de-camp an order, the perusal of which seemed to strike him with 
astonishment; but after taking a turn or two in the courtyard, to 
compare in his mind the order of to-day with that of the day pre- 
ceding, he assumed a more courteous demeanour, and, approach- 
ing the Count de Charney, placed in his hands the missive of 
General Menon. Trembling with emotion, the prisoner read as 
follows : — 

“ His majesty, the Emperor and King, deputes me, sir, to in- 
form you, that he grants the petition forwarded to him by the 
prisoner Charney, now under your custody in the fortress of Fe- 
nestrella, relative to a plant growing among the stones of one of its 
pavements. Such as are likely to be injurious to the flower must 
be instantly removed ; for which purpose you are requested to 
consult the wishes and convenience of your prisoner.” 

“ Long live the Emperor !” cried Ludovico. 

“Long live the Emperor!” murmured another voice, which 
seemed to issue from the adjoining wall ; and while all this was 
proceeding, the commandant stood leaning on his cane, by way 
of keeping himself in countenance; the two officers of justice, 
completely puzzled, were trying in vain to connect the new turn 
of affairs with the plot which their imagination had created ; while 
the aide-de-camp and page, secretly w'ondered what could be the 
motive of the haste which had been so urgently recommended to 
them. The latter now addressed Charney, to inform him that the 
letter contained a postscript in the handwriting of the Empress; 
and the Count, turning over the page, read aloud as follows : 

“ I earnestly recommend Monsieur the Count de Charney to 
the good offices of Captain Morand ; to whom I shall feel person 
ally obliged for any acts of kindness by which he may be enablea 
to alleviate the situation of his prisoner. Josephine.” 

10 


110 


PICCIOLA. 


“ Long live the Empress!” cried Ludovico. Charn^y said not 
a word. His feelings could not be satisfied with less than raising 
to his lips the precious signature of his benefactress. The letter, 
held for some minutes in silence before his eyes, served to conceal 
his face from the curiosity of the spectators. 


BOOK III. . 


CHAPTER I. 

The commandant of Fenestrella was now unrelaxing in his 
courtesies towards the protege of her majesty the Empress Queen. 
There was no further mention of a transfer to the northern bas- 
tion ; and Charney.was even authorized to reconstruct his fences 
for the defence of Picciola; who, feeble and delicate after her 
recent transplantation, had more than ever occasion for protection. 
So completely indeed had Captain Morand’s irritation of feeling 
against the prisoner and plant subsided, that every morning Lu- 
dovico appeared with a message of inquiry from the commandant 
after the wants and wishes of the Count, and the health of his 
pretty Picciola. 

Profiting by these favourable dispositions, Charney obtained 
from his munificence an allowance of pens, ink, and paper, where- 
w'ith to commemorate the sequel of his studies and observations 
on vegetable physiology ; for the letter of the Governor of Turin 
did not go so far as to cancel the confiscation w'hich had taken 
place of his former lucubrations. The two judiciary sbirri, after 
carrying off his cambric archives, and submitting them to the 
most careful examination, admitted their incompetency to discover 
a key to the cipher, and transmitted the whole to the minister of 
police in Paris, that more able decipherers might be employed to 
search out the root of the mystery. 

But Charney had now to deplore a far more important privation. 
The commandant, resolved to visit upon Girardi, the only victim 
within his reach, the reprimand originally addressed to him by 
General Menon, had consigned the venerable Italian to a stronger 
part of the fortress, secure from all communication with the exte- 
rior; and the Count could not refrain from bitter self-reproaches, 
when he reflected upon the miserable isolation of the poor old 
man. 


PICCIOLA. 


Ill 


The greater portion of the -day, his eyes remained mournfully 
fixed upon the grating in'the wall, the little window of which was 
now closed up. In fancy he still beheld Girardi extending his 
arm through the bars, and trying to bestow upon him a friendly 
pressure of the hand; nay, he still seemed to see his precious 
memorial to the Emperor, fluttering against the wall and gradually 
drawn up from hPs own hands to those of Girardi, — thence to pro- 
ceed to the hands of Teresa and the Empress. The very glance 
of pity and pardon cast down upon him by Girardi in his moment 
of anguish, seemed to shine ineffaceably on the spot ; and often 
did he hear again the cry of exultation which burst from the win- 
dow on the arrival of Picciola’s reprieve. That very sentence of 
pardon is in fact the gift of Girardi and Girardi’s daughter; and 
though solely serviceable to himself, has become the fatal origin 
of their separation and the sorrows of the parent and his child. 

Even the countenance of Teresa was restored, by the efforts of 
his imagination, to the spot where alone it had been momentarily 
revealed to his eyes, at the close of the uneasy dream which he 
now believed to have foreshown the approaching perils of his 
plant. Inseparably united in his mind with the Picciola of his 
dreams, it was always under her form and features, that the living 
Teresa Girardi was revealed to him. 

One day, as, with his eyes upraised towards the grating, the 
prisoner stood indulging in these and similar illusions, the dim 
and dusty window was flung open, and a female form appeared 
behind the grating. But the new-comer was a swarthy, savage- 
looking woman, with rapacious eyes, and an enormous goitre, in 
whom the Count soon recognised the wife of Ludovico. 

From that moment, Charney never cast his eyes towards the 
window. The charm was broken. 


CHAPTER II. 

Relieved from all constraint, imbedded in new earth, and capa- 
ciously framed in the wide pavement, Picciola seemed to rise tri- 
umphantly from her tribulations. She had, however, survived her 
summer blossoms ; with the exception of that single flower, the 
last to open and the last to fall. 

Charney already foresaw imp'ortant discoveries to be deduced 
from the seed, which was swelling and ripening in the calyx He 
promised himself the triumph of the Dies Seminalis, or Feast of 
the Sowers. For space was no longer wanting for his experi- 


112 


PICCIO L A. 


ments: Picciola has more than enough room for her own expan- 
sion. She has every facility to become a mother, and shelter her 
uprising children under the shadow of her branches. 

While waiting this important event, the Count becomes eager 
to ascertain the real name of the fair companion, to whom he is 
indebted for so many happy hours. 

“ Shall I never be able,” thought Charney, “ to bestow upon 
my foundling, my adopted child, the name she inherits from 
science, in common with her legitimate sisters of the plain or 
mountain ?” 

And at the first visit paid by the commandant to his charge, the 
Count admitted his desire to procure an elementary botanical 
work. Morand, unwilling either to refuse or to take upon him- 
self the vast responsibility of compliance, thought proper to sig- 
nify the demand in punctilious form to the governor of Pied- 
mont. But from General Menon, the protege of the Empress 
was now safe from a refusal ; and a botanical dictionary soon ar- 
rived at the fortress, accompanied by all the folios treating of 
botany which could be obtained from the Royal Library of 
Turin. 

“ I have the honour,” wrote General Menon, “ to facilitate to 
the utmost the wishes of the Sieur Charney ; for her Majesty the 
Empre.ss-dueen, a proficient in botanical science, (as in many 
others,) w'ill doubtless be glad to learn the name of a plant in 
whose welfare she has deigned to evince an interest.” 

When Ludovico made his appearance with the piles of books, 
under the enormous weight of which his back was breaking, 
Charney could not resist a smile. 

“ How !” cried he, “ all this heavy artillery, to compel a poor 
helpless flower to give up her name?” 

Nevertheless, it afforded him satisfaction to look once more upon 
a book. In turning over the leaves, his heart thrilled with plea- 
sure, as in former days, when the attainment of knowledge was 
his chief delight in life. What months had now elapsed since 
printed characters were before Iiis eyes! Already a plan of sage 
and sober study was concocting in his excited mind. 

“If ever I am released from captivity,” thought he, “I will 
certainly become a botanist. Instead of scholastic and pedantic 
controversies, which serve only to bewilder the human intellect, I 
will devote myself to a science where nature, ever varying, yet 
still the same, dispenses immutable laws to her disciples.” 

The books forwarded for the use of the Count de Charney, 
consisted of the Species Plantarvm, of Linnseus ; the Institu- 
tiones rei Ilerharice of Tournefort; the Thentrum Botaniemn of 
Bauhin; and the Pliytographia, Dendrologia, and Agrostogra- 
phia of Plukenet, Aldrovandus, and Scheuchzer ; besides half a 


PIC Cl OLA. 113 

hundred works of minor classicality, in the French, English, and 
Italian languages. 

Though somewhat startled by so formidable an array of learn- 
ing, the Count was not discouraged; and, by way of preparation 
for the worst, opened the thinnest volume of the collection, and 
began to examine the index in search of the most euphonous 
titles afforded by botanic nomenclature. He longed to appropri- 
ate to his purpose some of the softer saints of the floral calendar; 
such as Alcea, Alisma, Andryala, Bromelia, Celosia, Coronilla, 
Euphrasia, Helvelia, Passiflora, Primula, Santolina, or some other, 
equally soft to the lip, and harmonious to the ear. 

And, now, for the first time, he began to tremble, lest his pretty 
favourite should inherit some quaint or harsh patronymic. A mas- 
culine or neuter termination would put to flight all his poetical 
vagaries concerning his gentle friend. What, for instance, would 
become of his ethereal Picciola, if her earthly prototype were to 
be saluted as Rumex ohtusifutiiis, Satyrium, Hoscyamus, Gossy- 
puim, Cynoglossum, Cucubaluf:, Ccvchrus, Buxus ; or, worse still, 
and in more vulgar phrase, as Old Man, Dogtooth, Houndstongue, 
Cuckoo-flower, Devil-in-a-bush, Hen and Chickens, or Spider- 
wort ! How should he support such a disenchantment of his 
nympholeptic imagination! No! — better not to risk the vexation 
of such an ordeal. 

Yet, in spite of himself, he found it impossible to resist the 
temptation of opening every successive volume, — led on from 
page to page by the developement of the mighty mysteries of nature, 
but irritated by the love of system prevailing among the learned, 
by whom so charming a science has been rendered the harshest, 
most technical, and most perplexed, of all the branches of natural 
history. 

For a whole week he devoted himself to the analysis of his 
flower, with a view to classification, but without success. In the 
chaos of so many strange words, varying from system to system, — 
bewildered by the vast and ponderous synonymy, which, like the 
net of Vulcan, overspreads the beauties of botany, overpowering 
them by its weight, he soon gave up the attempt; having consulted 
each author in succession, for a clew, wandering from classes to 
orders, from orders to tribes, from tribes to families, from families 
to species, from species to individuals ; and losing all patience with 
the blind guides, ever at variance among themselves with respect 
to the purpose and denomination of the parts of organization in 
vegetable life. 

At the close of his investigations, the poor little flower, the last 
upon the tree, examined petal by petal, and to the very depth of 
her calyx, suddenly fell off one day into the hand of the operator, 
bearing with it Charriey’s hopes of inquiry into the progress of the 
10 * 


114 


PICCIOLA. 


seed, the reproduction of his favourite, the maternity of the lovely 
Picciola ! 

“ She shall have no other title than Picciola !” cried Charney. 
“ Picciola, the flower of the captive. What do I. want to know 
more of her name or nature? To what purpose this idle thirst 
after human knowledge?” 

In a moment of petulance, Charney even threw down the vast 
heap of folios which had served to' perplex him ; when, from one 
of the volumes, came fluttering forth a slip of paper, on which 
had been recently inscribed, in the handwriting of a woman, the 
following verse, purporting to be a quotation from the Holy Scrip- 
tures : 

“ Hope, and bid thy neighbour hope : for, behold, I have not 
forsaken ye, an'd a day bf consolation js at hand.” 


CHAPTER III. 

Charney perused and re-perused a hundred times a sentence 
which he could not but believe to have been especially addressed 
to himself. His correspondent was evidently a woman; but it 
grieved him to reflect that the only one to whom he was indebted 
for real acts of service, the only woman who had ever devoted her- 
self to his cause, was still so imperfectly known to him, that he 
was ignorant of the very sound of her voice, and by no means 
sure of recognising her person, should she present herself before 
him. 

But by what means had Teresa contrived to evade the vigilance 
of his Argus in the transmission of her letter? 

Poor girl ! Afraid to compromise her father by the mere men- 
tion of his name! Unhappy father! — to whom he is unable to 
afford consolation by the sight of the handwriting of his child ! 

Often, indeed, had Charney’s nights been rendered sleepless by 
the idea of the solitary old man, to whom he had been the inno- 
cent cause of such irreparable injury, when one night, as he was 
lying awake, absorbed in these afflicting recollections, his ear was 
struck by an unaccustomed sound in the chamber above his own, 
which had remained uninhabited during the whole period of his 
confinement at Fenestrella. 

Next morning, Ludovico entered his apartment, his countenance 
full of meaning, which he vainly attempted to compose to its usual 
vacuity of expression. 


PICCIOLA. 115 

What is the matter ?” demanded the Count; “has anything 
unusual occurred in the citadel?” 

“Nothing particular, Signor Conte; nothing of any conse- 
quence, only we have had a sudden influx of prisoners; and the 
chambers of the northern and southern turrets being full, the com- 
mandant is under the necessity of placing another state prisoner 
in this part of the fortress, who must share with you the use of the 
court-yard. But this need be no hindrance to your pursuits. We 
receive at Fenestrella only gentlemen of high consideration, — .that 
is, I mean we have no thieves or robbers among our prisoners. 
But stay, here is the new-comer, waiting to pay you his visit of 
inauguration.” 

Charney half rose at this announcement, scarcely knowing 
whether to grieve or rejoice at the intelligence; but, on turning 
to do the honours to his unexpected guest, what was his amaze- 
ment to behold the door open for the admission of — Girardi ! 



After gazing upon each other for a moment in silence, as if 
still doubtful of the reality of their good fortune, the hands of the 
two prisoners were suddenly pressed together in mutual gratu- 
lations. 

“Well and good,” cried Ludovico, with a cordial smile; “no 


no 


P I C C 1 O L A . 


need, I see, of a master of the ceremonies between you ; the ac- 
quaintance has been quickly made and away he went, leaving 
them to the enjoyment of each other’s society. 

“ To whom are we indebted, I wonder, for this happy meeting?” 
w^as Charney’s first exclamation. 

“ To my daughter — doubtless to my daughter,” replied Girardi. 
“ Every consolation of my life reaches me through the hands of 
my Teresa.” 

“•Do you know this handwriting?” inquired Charney, drawing 
from his casket the slip of paper he so dearly treasured. 

“It is Teresa’s!” cried Girardi; “it is the writing of my 
child 1 She has not neglected us ; nor have her promises been 
tardy in their accomplishment. But how did this letter reach 
your hands?” 

The Count related all the circumstances, then carelessly put 
forth his hand to receive back the slip of paper ; but, perceiving 
that the poor old man silently detained it, perusing it word by 
word, letter by letter, and raising it a thousand times, with trem- 
bling hands, to his lips, he saw that the pledge was lost to him for 
ever ; and experienced a regret at the loss, which appeared almost 
unaccountable. 

After the first moments passed in conjectures, concerning 
Teresa and the spot where she was likely to have taken refuge, 
Girardi began to examine the lodgings of his new friend ; and 
gravely proceeded to decipher the inscriptions on the wall. Two 
among them had been already modified; and the old man could 
readily discern, in this recantation, the influence exercised by 
Picciola over her votary. One of the maxims of Charney ran as 
follows; — “Mankind maintain, upon the surface of the earth, the 
position they will one day hold below it — side by side, without a 
single bond of union. Physically considered, the world is a mob, 
where millions meet and jostle together : morally speaking, it is a 
solitary wilderness.” 

To this withering sentence, the hand of Girardi added, ‘^Unless 
to him iclio has a friend’^ Then, turning to his young companion, 
the old man extended his arms towards him, and a mutual embrace 
sealed between them a compact of eternal friendship. 

Next day, they dined together in the camera of the Count; — 
Charney seated upon the bed, and his venerable guest upon the 
chair, — the sculptured table between them being covered with 
double rations, viz : a fine trout from the lake of Avigliano, cray- 
fish from the Cenise, a bottle of excellent Mondovi wine, and a 
piece of the celebrated Millesimo cheese, known over Italy under 
the name of ruhiola. The feast was a noble one for a prison ; but 
Girardi’s purse was richly replenished, and the commandant will- 
ing to sanction every accommodation which Ludovico could aflbrd 


PICCIOLA. 117 

to the two prisoners, within the letter of his instructions from head- 
quarters. 

Never had Charney more thoroughly enjoyed the pleasures of 
the table. The happiest spirit of social intercourse was already 
established between them.^ If exercise, and the waters of the 
Eurotas, imparted a zest to the black broth of the Lacedajmonians, 
how much more the presence and conversation of a friend to the 
flavour of the choice viands of Piedmont! 

/rheir hearts expanded with the sense of enjoyment. Without 
scruple, without preamble, but as if in fulfilment of the sacred en- 
gagements conveyed in their promises of friendship, Charney began 
to relate the presumptuous studies and idle vanities of his youth; 
while Girardi, by way of encouragement to this candour, did not 
hesitate to avow the early errors of his own. 


CHAPTER IV. 

Girardi was a native of Turin; in which city his progenitors 
had established a considerable manufactory of arms. From time 
immemorial. Piedmont has afforded a medium for the transmission 
of opinions and merchandise from Italy to France, and a medium 
for the transmission of merchandise and opinions from France to 
Italy; some portion of each', of course, being detained on the 
road. The breezes of France had breathed on Girardi’s father, 
who was a philosopher, a reformer, a disciple of Voltaire: the 
breezes of Italy upon his mother, who was a zealot to the utmost 
extent of bigotry. The boy, loving and respecting both parents, 
and listening to both with equal confidence, participating in both 
their natures, became, of necessity, an amphibious moralist and 
politician. A republican, as well as a devotee, he was incessantly 
projecting the union of Liberty and Religion; — a holy alliance 
which he purposed to accomplish after a manner of his own. For 
Girardi was but twenty ; and at that period, people were young at 
twenty years of age. 

The enthusiastic youth was soon compelled to give pledges on 
both sides. The Piedmontese nobility retained certain nobiliary 
privileges, — such as an exclusive right to appear in a box at the 
theatre, or to dance at a public ball ; and dancing was held to be 
an aristocratic exercise, in wliich the middle classes must content 
themselves with the part of spectators. 

At the head of a band of young people of his own age, Gia- 
como Girardi chose, however, one day to infringe the national rule 


118 


PICCIOLA. 


established by his belters; and at a public ball, headed a quadrille 
of untitled dancers, in the very face of the aristocratic portion of 
the assembly. The patrician dancers, indignant at the innovation, 
would fain have put a stop to the attempt; but vociferous cries 
of Amusement for all alike, — dancing for high and low,” were 
raised by the plebeians; and to this outbreak of sedition succeeded 
other cries of a liberal nature. In the tumult that ensued, twenty 
challenges were given and refused, not from cowardice, but pride; 
and the imprudent Giacomo, carried away by the impetuosity of 
his age and character, ended with inflicting a blow upon the 
proudest and most insolent of his adversaries. 

The unpremeditated insult proved of serious moment. The 
influential family of San Marsano swore that it should not pass 
unpunished; the knights of St. Maurice, of the Annunciation, all 
the chivalry and nobility of the country (which an infringement 
of privilege is sure to render unanimous), affected to resent the 
offence, both individually and collectively. At his father’s sug- 
gestion, the young man took refuge with one of his relations, vicar 
of a small village in the principality of Masserano, in the envirdns 
of Bielle, and, in consequence of his flight, Girardi was condemned, 
as contumacious, to five years’ banishment from Turin. 

The dignity to which the whole business was rashly elevated by 
all this notoriety, investing a boyish affray with the importance 
of a conspiracy, imparted considerable consequence to Giacomo 
Girardi in the eyes of his fellow-countrymen. Some saluted him 
as champion of the liberties of the people; others as one of those 
dangerous innovators who still dreamed of restoring the inde- 
pendence of Piedmont; but while, at the court of Turin, the in- 
solent chastiser of nobility was denounced as a leading member 
of the democratic faction, the poor little partisan was quietly 
ministering to the performance of a village mass, after the fervent 
fulfilment of his own religious duties! 

This stormy commencement of a life which had seemed pre- 
destined to peace and tranquillity, exercised a powerful influence 
over the fortunes of Giacomo Girardi. In his old age, he was 
fated to pay a severe penalty for the follies of his boyhood, for, 
upon his arrest on the groundless charge of having attempted the 
life of the First Consul, his accusers did not fail to recur to his 
early disorders, as an evidence of his dangerous tendency as a 
disturber of the public peace. But from the moment of quitting 
Turin, and during the whole period of his exile, Giacomo, indiS 
ferent to the love of equality instilled into him by his father, re- 
signed himself to the influence of the religious principles derived 
from his mother. He even carried them to excess; and his rela- 
tive, the worthy priest, whose fliith was sincere, but whose capacity 
narrow and uncultivated, instead of checking the exalted fervour 


PICCIOLA. 


119 


of the young enthusiast, excited it to the utmost, in the hope that 
the loveliness of Christian humility would impose a check upon 
the impetuosity of his character. But in the sequel, the worthy 
vicar repented the rashness of his calculations : for Giacomo would 
hear of nothing now buf embracing the sacerdotal profession. 
The wild, hot-headed young man insisted on becoming a priest 
of the altar. 

In the hope of arresting a measure which would deprive them 
of their only son, his father and mother got him recalled home ; 
and by the utmost eloquence of parental tenderness, prevailed 
upon him to resign his projects, and acquiesce in their own. In 
a few months, Giacomo Girardi was married to a beautiful girl, 
selected for him by his family. But, to the great astonishment of 
his friends, the young fanatic not only persisted in regarding his 
lovely bride as an adopted sister, but exercised over her mind so 
strong an influence as to persuade her to retire into a convent, 
while he returned to his pious calling in the neighbourhood of 
Bielle. 

At a short distance from his favourite village, rose the last 
branch of the Pennine Alps — a vast and towering chain of moun- 
tains ; the highest peak of which, Monte Mucrone, overshadowed 
a gloomy little valley; — shaggy with overhanging rocks, obscured 
by mists, bordered by awful precipices, and appearing at a distance 
to imbody all the horrors with which Dante and Virgil have in- 
vested the entrance to the infernal regions. But on drawing 
nearer to the defile, the impending rocks were found to be clefted 
with verdure; the precipices to be relieved by gentle slopes, where 
flowering shrubs afforded a beautiful ladder of vegetation, inter- 
spersed with natural bowers and thickets ; while the mists, vary- 
ing in hue according to the reflections of the sun, after becoming 
white, pink, or violet, evaporated altogether under the influence 
of the noontide radiance. It was then that, deep in the lovely 
valley, a lake of about five hundred feet in length became ap- 
parent, alimented by crystal springs, and giving rise to the little 
river called the Oroppa, which at some distance farther encircled 
and formed into an island one of the verdant hillocks of the val- 
ley, on which the piety of the inhabitants has erected, at great 
cost, and consecrated to the Holy Virgin, one of the most re- 
markable churches in the country. If the legend is to be be- 
lieved, St. Eusebius himself, on his return from a pilgrimage to 
the Holy Land, deposited there a wooden statue of the Virgin, 
carved by a hand no less holy than that of St. Luke the Evan- 
gelist, which he was desirous of securing from the profanations 
of the Arians. 

In this sequestered vale, on the banks of this lonely lake, sur- 
rounded by the shrubby rocks and gentle precipices, — in this 


120 


PIC C lOL A. 


church, and at the foot of the miraculous statue, did Giacomo 
Girardi dream away five years of his young existence — rejecting 
the adoration of his lovely bride for that of the wooden lady of 
Oroppa ! * « 

Incapable of distinguishing between credulity and faith, una- 
ware that superstition may degenerate into idolatry, that all extremes 
are unacceptable to God, he little suspected that it was not the 
Mary of Scripture — the mother of the Redeemer — to whom he 
dedicated his prayers; but a divinity of his own, — the tutelary 
genius of the place. Before the miraculous image, he passed his 
nights and days, in prayers and tears, praying for a higher spirit- 
ualization, and weeping over imaginary faults. liis heart was that 
of a child, — his mind, that of a fanatic. In vain did the vicar, his 
worthy relative, labour to repress this unnatural fervour, and bring 
him back to reason. In vain, to distract his thoughts from one 
fixed and dangerous idea, did he suggest a pilgrimage to other 
spots of peculiar sanctity, dedicated to the worship of the Virgin. 
Giacomo would not hear of our Lady of Loretto, or the Saint 
Mary of Bologna or of Milan. He was infatuated by the pretended 
virtue of a material image, a piece of black and worm-eaten wood ; 
and pronounced all homage to its celestial prototype. 

The sentiments of the enthusiast, if they eventually lost in depth, 
gained only in extent. The Virgin of Oroppa was surrounded by 
a whole court of saints and saintesses ; — and to each of these, the 
infatuated Giacomo assigned some peculiar duty of intercession. 
From one, he implored the dispersion of the clouds charged with 
hail-showers, which, from the heights of Monte Mucrone, some- 
times rattled down upon his beloved valley. To another, he 
assigned the task of comforting his mother for his absence, and 
sustaining the spiritual weakness of his young wife. A third, he 
implored to watch over him in sleep, — a fourth, to defend him 
against the temptations of Satan. His devotion, by this means, 
degenerated into an impure polytheism, and Mount Oroppa into a 
new Olympus, where every divinity but the one Almighty God 
was honoured with a shrine. 

Subjecting himself to the severest discipline, the most painful 
privations, he continued to macerate himself, to fast, to remain 
whole days without nourishment; and the exhaustion that ensued 
was qualified with the name of divine ecstacy ! He saw visions, 
he heard revelations. After the delusions of the Quietists, he fan- 
cied that, by subjugating his physical nature, he could develope 
and render visible his soul. But, while resigning himself to this 
chimera, and holding imaginary discourse with his immaterial 
nature, Girardi’s health gave way, and his reason became dis- 
ordered. 

One day, a voice seem.ed to address him from on high, com- 


PICCIOL A. 


121 


manding him to go and convert the heretic Waldenses, remnants 
of which persecuted sect still exist in the Valais. He accordingly 
set off, traversed the country adjoining the river Sesia, attained 
the summit of the Alps, near Monte Rosa, and there, suddenly 
arrested in his course by the snow of an early winter, found him- 
self under the necessity of passing several months in a chalet. 

This place of general refuge, designated, in the language of the 
country, las strablas, or the stables, consisted in a vast shed, five 
hundred feet square, open towards the south, but carefully closed 
in all other directions, by strong pine logs, filled in with moss and 
lichens, cemented into a mass by resinous gums. Here, in incle- 
ment weather, men, women, children, flocks, and herds, united 
together, as in a common habitation, under the control of the 
oldest member of the tribe. A large hearth, constantly supplied 
with fuel, sparkled in the centre of the dwelling; over which was 
suspended an enormous boiler, in which, alternately or together, 
the food of the community was prepared, — consisting of dried 
vegetables, pork, mutton, quarters of chamois, or cutlets of the 
flesh of the marmot; eaten afterwards at a general meal, with 
bread made of chestnut-meal, and a fermented liquor made from 
cranberries and whortleberries. 

Occupations were not wanting in the chalet. The children and 
flocks were to be attended to; the winter cheeses to be made; the 
spinning, which was incessantly at work; and instruments of hus- 
bandry, in progress of manufacture, to force into cultivation, during 
the short summer season, the shallow soil of the adjacent rocks. 
Garments of sheep-skin were also manufactured ; baskets of the 
bark of trees; and a variety of elegant trifles, carved in sycamore, 
or larchwood, for sale in the nearest towns. The population of 
the chalet, cheerful and laborious, suffered not an hour to pass 
unimproved; and songs and laughter intermingled with the strokes 
of the axe, and busy murmur of the wheel. Labour scarcely ap- 
peared a task; and study and prayer were accounted the duty and 
recreation of the day. Harmonious and well-practised voices 
united in chorus for the daily execution of pious canticles: the 
elder shepherds instructed the young in reading and arithmetic ; 
— nay, even in music, and a smattering of Latin; for the civiliza- 
tion of the Higher Alps, like its vegetation, seems to be preserved 
under the snow ; and it is no uncommon thing to see, at the return 
of spring, school-masters and minstrels descend from the chalets, 
to diffuse knowledge and hilarity among the agricultural villages 
of the plain. 

The worthy hosts of Giacomo proved to be Waldenses. The 
opportunity was an auspicious one for the young apostle; but, 
scarcely had he let fall a word of the purport of his mission, when 
the octogenarian chief of the community, high in the renown, se 

11 


122 


PICCIOLA. 


cureJ, among these humble peasants, by a life of industry and 
virtue, cut short his expectations. 

“Our fathers,” said he to the young man, “endured exile, per- 
secutions, death, — rather than subscribe to the image-worship 
practised among your people. Hope not, therefore, that your feeble 
powers will effect what centuries of persecution failed to accom- 
plish. Stranger ! you have found shelter under our roof, and 
therein, for your own safety, must abide. Pray, therefore, to God, 
according to the dictation of your own conscience, as we do ac- 
cording to ours; but be advised by the experience of a gray-beard, 
and take part in the labours proceeding around you ; or, in this 
solitude, remote from the rumours and excitements of social life, 
want of occupation will destroy you. Be our companion, our 
brother, so long as the wdnter snows weigh upon your existence 
and our own; and, at the return of spring, leave us, unquestioned, 
as you came; without so much as bestowing your benediction on 
our hearth : — nay, without even turning back upon your path, to 
salute, by a farewell gesture, those by whose fire you have been 
warmed, and at whose frugal board, nourished. For, having shared 
their industry, you will owe them nothing. The fruit of your own 
labour will have maintained you ; and, should any debt be still 
owing, the God of mercy will repay us a thousand-fold for our 
hospitality to the son of the stranger.” 

Forced, to submit to a proposition so reasonable, Giacomo re- 
mained five months an inmate of the chalet, and an eye-witness 
of the virtuous career of its inhabitants. Night and morning, he 
heard their prayers and thanksgivings offered up to the throne of 
grace, — to the throne of the one omnipresent God; and his mind, 
no longer excited by the objects which had wrought its exaltation, 
became gradually composed to a reasonable frame. When the 
prison of ice, constructed for him by nature, ceased to hold him 
captive, and the sun, shining out with the return of spring, de- 
veloped before his eyes all the beauty and majesty of the moun- 
tain-scenery by which he was surrounded, the idea of the Al- 
mighty Lord of the universe seemed to manifest itself powerfully 
to his mind, and resume its fitting influence on his heart. 

The geniality of the weather, reviving all nature around him, 
with her swarming myriads of birds and bees hovering over the 
new-born flowers, starting anew to life from beneath their winter 
mantle of snow, awoke in his bosom correspondent transports of 
love and joy. It were vain to dilate on the expansion of human 
feeling which gradually enlarged his perceptions. The good old 
chief had begun to entertain an affection for him; and, though 
unlearned in pedantic lore, had stored up, in the course of his 
long existence, an infinity of facts and observations, which, joined 
to those inherited from the lessons of his fathers, inspired him 


P I C C I 0 L A . 


123 


with knowledge of the Creator through the wisdom of his works. 
In a word, the presumptuous youth, who had entered that humble 
asylum for the purpose of converting its people to his opinions, 
eventually quitted it, himself converted to their own ! — nay, the 
industrious habits he had acquired, and the examples of domestic 
happiness he had witnessed, had brought him to a due sense of 
his error in neglecting the happiness and duties with which Pro- 
vidence had endowed his existence. 

Giacomo’s first visit after quitting Monte Rosa, was toihe con- 
vent in which his wife was immured. A whole romance might 
be developed in the history of his wooing, and the difficulties with 
which his courtship was beset. Suffice it, that after many months 
devoted to the obliteration of the lessons he had himself incul- 
cated, Girardi, aided by the influence of his parents, succeeded in 
removing his wife from the cloistral seclusion to which he had 
devoted her ; and became, in the sequel, the happiest of husbands 
and of fathers. 

The errors of his youth were now redeemed by years of wis- 
dom and of virtue. Established in his native city of Turin, in 
the enjoyment of a handsome fortune, the thriving speculations in 
which he was engaged might have rendered it colossal, but for the 
systematic benevolence which rendered the opulence of Girardi a 
second providence to the poor. To do good was the occupation 
of his life ; his favourite recreation was the study of animated 
nature. Girardi became a proficient in natural history; and as 
God is greatest in the least of his works, entomology chiefly en- 
gaged his attention. It was this interest in the organization and 
habits of insects, which had obtained for him from Ludovico, in 
the earlier stages of his imprisonment, the appellation of “The 
Fly-catcher.” 


CHAPTER V. 

The two prisoners had no longer any secrets from each other ! 
After glancing rapidly over the history of their several lives, they 
returned to the various incidents of each, and the emotions tc 
which they had given rise. They sometimes spoke of Teresa; 
but at the very mention of her name, a vivid blush overspread the 
face of Charney, and the old man himself grew grave and sad. 
Any allusion to the absent angel was sure to be followed by an 
interval of mournful silence. 

Their discourse usually turned upon the discussion of some 


121 


PICCIOLA. 


point of morality; or comments upon the eccentricities of human 
nature. Girardi’s philosophy, mild and benevolent, invested the 
happiness of man in the love of his fellow-creatures; nor could 
Charney, though half converted to his opinions, understand by 
what means this spirit of tenderness and indulgence could sur- 
vive the injuries which the philosopher had endured from man- 
kind. 

“Surely,” said he, “you must have bestowed your malediction 
on those who, after basely calumniating you, tore you from the 
bosom of domestic happiness, — from the arms of your daugh- 

ter?” 

“The offence of a few,” replied Girardi, “ was not to subvert 
my principles of action towards the whole. Even those few, 
blinded by political fanaticism, fancied they were fulfilling a duty. 
Trust me, my young friend, it is indispensable to survey even the 
injuries we receive through a medium of pardon and pity. Which 
of us has not required forgiveness for faults? Which of us has 
not, in his turn, mistaken error for the truth ? St. John bequeathed 
to us the blessed axiom that God is love! True and beautiful 
proposition! — since by love alone the soul re-elevates itself to its 
celestial source, and finds courage for the endurance of misfor- 
tune! Had I entered into captivity with a particle of hatred in 
my soul against my fellow-creatures, I should have expired in my 
irnbittered loneliness. But Heaven be praised, I have never been 
the prey of a single painful reflection. The recollection of my 
good and faithful friends, whose hearts I knew were suflering with - 
every suffering of my own, served to stimulate my affection to- 
wards mankind ; and the only unlucky moment of my captivity 
was that in which I was debarred the sight of a fellow-creature.” 

“How!” cried Charney, “were you ever subjected to such a 
deprivation ?” 

“At rny first arrest,” resumed Girardi, “I was transported to a 
dungeon in the citadel of Turin; so framed as to render commu- 
nication impossible even with my gaoler. My food was conveyed 
to me by a turning box inserted in the wall ; and during a whole 
month not the slightest sound interrupted the stillness of my soli- 
tude. It needs to have undergone all I then experienced, fully 
to comprehend the fallacy of that savage philosophy which denied 
society to be the natural condition of the human species. The 
wretch condemned to isolation from his kind is a wretch indeed ! 
To hear no human voice, — to meet no human eye, — to be denied 
the pressure of a human hand, — to find only cold and inanimate 
objects on which to rest one’s brow, — one’s breast, — one’s heart; 
— is a privation to which the strongest might fall a victim ! The 
month I thus endured weighed like years upon my nature; and 
when, every second day, 1 discerned the footsteps of my gaoler in 


PICCIOLA. 


125 


the corridor, coming to renew my provisions, the mere sound 
caused my heart to leap within me. While the box was turning 
round, I used to strain my eyes in hopes to catch, at the crevice, 
the slightest glimpse of his face, his hand, his very dress; and my 
disappointment drove me to despair. Could I have discerned a 
human face, even bearing the characters of cruelty or wickedness, 
I should have thought it full of beauty ; and had the man extended 
his arms towards me in kindness, have blessed him for the con- 
cession ! But the sight of a human face was denied me till the 
day of my translation to Fenestrella; and my only resource con- 
*isted in feeding the reptiles which shared my captivity, and in 
meditating upon my absent child !” 

Charney started at the allusion : but his venerable companion 
was himself too much distressed to notice the emotion of his young 
friend. 

“At length,” said he, after a long pause, which served to re* 
store him to his usual serenity, “ a favourable change befel me 
even in my dungeon. I discovered, by means of a straggling ray 
of light, a crevice produced byjlhe insertion of an iron cross by 
way of support into the walls of my dungeon : which, though it 
enabled me to obtain only an oblique glimpse of the opposite wall, 
became a source- of exquisite enjoyment. My cell happened to be 
situated under the keep of the citadel ; and one blessed day, I 
noticed for the first time the shadow of a man distinctly reflected 
upon the wall. A sentinel had doubtless been posted on the plat- 
form over my head ; for the shadow went and came, anti I could 
distinguish the form of the man’s uniform, the epaulet, the knap- 
sack, the point of his bayonet, — the very vacillation of his feather! 

“ Till evening extinguished my resource, I remained at my 
post; and how shall I describe the thrill of joy with which I ac- 
knowledged so unexpected a consolation ! I was no longer alone ; 
— I had once more a living companion ! — Next day and the days 
succeeding, the shadow of another soldier appeared; the sentinels 
were ever changing, but my enjoyment was the same. It was 
always a man, — always a fellow-creature I knew to be near me ; — 
a living, breathing follow-creature, — whose movements I could 
watch, and whose dispositions conjecture. When the moment 
came for relieving guard, I welcomed the new-comer, and bade 
good-by to his predecessor. I knew the corporal by sight; I 
could recognise the different profiles of the men; nay, (dare I 
avow such a weakness!) some among them were objects of my 
predilection. The attitude of their persons, or comparative vin 
vacity of their movements, became so many indications of charac- 
ter, from which their age and sentiments might be inferred. One 
paced gaily along, turning lightly on his heel, balancing his mus- 
ket in sport, or waving his head in cadence to the air he was 
11 * 


126 


P. I C C 1 o L A . 


whistling; he was doubtless young and gay, cheered by visions of 
happiness and love. Another paced along, with his brow inclining, 
pausing often, and leaning with his "arms crossed upon his mus- 
ket, meditating mournfully, perhaps, upon his distant village, his 
absent mother, his childhood’s friends. He passed his hand ra- 
pidly over his eyes — perhaps to dash away the tears gathered by 
these tender retrospections ! 

“ For many of these shadows I felt a lively interest, an inex- 
plicable compassion ; and the balm thus called into existence 
within my bosom shed its soothing influence over my fate. Trust 
me, my good young friend, the truest happiness is that we derive 
from our sympathy with our fellow-creatures,” 

“ Why did I not become earlier acquainted with you, excellent 
man?” cried Charney, deeply affected. “Plow different, then, 
had "been the tenor of my life! But what right have I to com- 
plain? Have I not found in this desolate spot all that was denied 
me amid the splendour of the world? — a devoted heart — a noble 
soul — an anchor of strength! — virtue and truth — Girardi and 
Picciola?” • 

For among all these effusions of the heart, Picciola was not for- 
gotten. The two friends had constructed a more capacious seat 
beside her; where, side by side, and facing the lovely plant, they 
passed hour after hour together, all three in earnest conversation. 
Charney had given to this new seat the name of “ The Bench of 
Conference.” 

There did the simple-minded Girardi aspire for once to elo- 
quence : for without eloquence in the expositor, no conviction. 
Nor were the eloquence or conviction wanting. 

The bench had become the rostrum of a professor; a professor, 
though less learned than his scholar, infinitely wiser and more 
enlightened. The professor is Giacomo Girardi, the pupil the 
Count de Charney, and the book in process of exposition — Pic- 
ciola ! 


CHAPTER VI. 

As autumn approached, Charney could not forbear expressing 
to his friend, as they sat together on the Bench of Conference, his 
regret at losing all hopes of Picciola’s second flowering, and his 
lamentations over her last blossom. 

Girardi immediately attempted to supply the loss by a disserta- 
tion on the fructification of plants, and the evidence thereby af- 
forded of ^he interyeptioij of an all-wise Providence. 


PICCIOLA. 


127 


Girardi first alluded to the winged form of the seeds of certain 
plants, whose foliage, large and complicated, would oppose their 
dispersion, but fpr the feathery tuft attached to each, which causes 
them to float in the atmosphere; and described the elastic pods in 
which others are enclosed, which, opening by a sudden spring, at 
the moment of maturity, discharge the seed to a distance. “ 'I'hese 
wings, these springs,” observed the old man, “ are hands and feet 
bestowed upon them by the Almighty, that they may reach their 
destined place, and germinate in the sunshine. What human eye, 
for instance,” said he, “ is able to follow, in their aerial flight, 
the membranous seeds of the elm, the maple, the pine, the ash — 
circling in the atmosphere amid volumes of other seeds, rising by 
their own buoyancy, and apparently flying in search of the birds, 
of which they are to form the nourishment?” 

The old man next proceeded to explain the phenomena of 
aquatic plants; how the seeds of those destined for the adornment 
of brooks, or the banks of lakes or ponds, are endowed with a 
form enabling them to float upon the water, so as to deposit them- 
selves in various parts of the beach, or cross from one bank to 
another; while such as are intended to take root in the bed of the 
river fall at once by their own weight to the bottom, and give birth 
to reeds and rushes, or those beautiful water-lilies, whose roots are 
in the mud beneath, while their large green shining leaves, and 
snow-white blossoms, float in pride and glory upon the bosom 
of the waters. The vallisneria was not forgotten; the male and 
female plants of which being disunited, the former uncoils her 
long spiral peduncle, to raise her flower above the surface of the 
stream, while the male, unpossessed of a similar faculty, breaks 
its fragile flower-stalk, and rises spontaneously to the surface, to 
accomplish the flct of fecundation. 

“ How is it,” cried Charney, “ that men remain insensible to 
the existence of tliese wondrous prodigies of nature?” 

And the old man rejoiced at the exclamation, as a proof that 
his lessons were not shed upon a barren and ungrateful soil. 

“ Tell me,” demanded the Count, “ has the insect creation, to 
which your studies have been peculiarly addressed, furnished you 
with facts as curious as those for which I am indebted to my Pic- 
ciola ?” 

“ So curious,” replied Girardi, “ that you will not fully appre- 
ciate even the marvels of Picciola till you have become acquainted 
with the hosts of animated beings which hover over her verdant 
branches. You will then learn to admire the secret laws which 
connect the plant with the insect, the insect with the plant; and 
perceive that ‘ order is Heaven’s first law,’ and that one vast in- 
telligence influences the whole creation.” 

Girardi was proceeding to enlarge upon the harmony of the 


128 


PICCIOLA. 


universe, when, pausing suddenly, he pointed out to liis compa- 
nion a brilliant and beautiful butterfly, poised on one of the twigs 
of his plant, with a peculiar quivering of the wings. “ See !” 
cried he, “ Picciola hastens to expound my theory ! An engage- 
ment has just been contracted between her and yonder insect, 
which is now consigning its posterity to her guardianship.” 

And when the butterfly flew away, Charney verified the asser- 
tion by examining a little group of eggs, attached by a viscous 
substance to the bark. 

“ Do you imagine,” inquired Girardi, “ that it is by chance the 
butterfly has proceeded hither, to intrust to Picciola this precious 
deposit? On the contrary. Nature has assigned to every plant 
analogies with certain insects. Every plant has its insect to lodge, 
its insect to feed. Admire the long chain of connexion between 
them! This butterfly, when a caterpillar, was nourished on the 
substance of a plant of the same species as Picciola; and after 
undergoing its appointed transformations, and become a butterfly, 
it fluttered faithless from flower to flower, sipping the sweets of a 
thousand different nectaries. But no sooner did the moment of 
maturity arrive for a creature that never beheld its mother, and 
will never behold its children, (for its task fulfilled, it is now 
about to die,) than, by an instinct surer than the best lessons of 
experience, it flew hither to deposit its progeny on a plant similar 
to that by which, under a different form and in a different season, 
it was fed and protected. Instinctively conscious that little ca- 
terpillars will emerge from its eggs, it forgets, for their sake, the 
habits it has acquired as a butterfly 1 

“ Who taught her all this? Who endowed her with memory, 
powers of reasoning, and recognising the peculiarities of a vege- 
table, whose present foliage bears no resemblance to that which 
it bore during the spring? The most experienced botanist is 
often mistaken — the insect, never !” 

Charney involuntarily testified his surprise. 

“ You have still more to learn,” interrupted Girardi. “ Exa- 
mine the branch selected by the insect. It is one of the largest 
and strongest on the tree; not one of the new shoots, likely to be 
decayed by frost during the winter, or broken by the wind. All 
this has been foreseen by the insect. Whence did it derive such 
prescience ?” 

“ Do you not in some degree deceive yourself, my dear friend?” 
demanded Charney, unwilling to avow how much he was con- 
founded by these discoveries. 

“ Peace, sceptic, peace !” replied the old man, with an accusing 
smile. “ You will admit, at least, that seeing is believing! Pic- 
ciola has now her part to play. The foresight of the insect is no* 
greater than that with which Nature endows the plant towards the 


PICCtOLA. 


‘29 


legacy bequeathed by the butterfly; at the return of spii<ig we 
will verify the prodigy together. The moment the plant puts 
forth its leaves, the tiny eggs will break, and emit-the larvae they 
contain : a law of harmony regulates the vegetation of the plant 
in common with the vitality of the insect. Were the larvae to ap- 
pear first, there would be no food for them ; were the leaves to 
precede them, they would have acquired too firm a consistency 
for their feeble powers. But Nature, provident over all, causes 
both plant and insect to develope themselves at the same moment, 
to grow together, and together attain their maturity ; so that the 
wings and flowers of each are simultaneous in their display of 
beauty.” 

“Another lesson derived from my gentle Picciola !” murmured 
the astonished Charney ; and conviction entered into his soul ! 

Thus passed the days of the captives, in mutual solace and in- 
struction ; and when, every evening, the hour arrived for retreat- 
ing singly into the camera of each, to wait the hour of rest, the 
same object unconsciously occupied their meditations; for Char- 
ney thought of Teresa, and Girardi of his daughter, exhausting 
their minds in conjecture as to her present destiny. 

The young girl herself, meanwhile, was not inactive on their 
behalf. Her first impulse had been to follow the Emperor to Mi- 
lan ; where Teresa soon discovered that it is as difficult to pene- 
trate through the antechamber of royalty as through the ranks of 
an army. The friends of Girardi, however, roused by her efforts, 
renewed their applications, and having undertaken to procure, at 
no remote period, the liberation of the captive, his daughter, some- 
what reassured, returned to Turin, where an asylum was offered 
her in the house of a near relation. 

The husband of this relative happened -fo be the librarian of the 
city; and to him did Menon address himself, to select the botani- 
cal works destined for the use of the prisoner of Fenestrella. It 
was no difficult matter for Teresa to infer from the nature of the 
study to whom these books were destined; and she accordingly 
managed to slip into one of the volumes the mysterious despatch, 
which, even if discovered by the commandant, was not of a nature 
to compromise either her relation or the protege in whose behalf 
she had already ventured so largely. She was still ignorant that 
her father and Charney no longer resided in each other’s neigh- 
bourhood ; and when the news of their separation was brought 
back by the messenger employed to convey the books to Fenes- 
trella, it became her first object to accomplish the reunion of the 
two captives. 

After addressing letter after letter on the subject,. to the governor 
of Piedmont, she continued to interest in her behalf some of the 
chief inhabitants of Turin and, through them, the wife of Menon, 


130 


P I C C I 0 L A . 


till the general, having strong motives for desiring to conciliate 
his influential petitioners, ended by granting the prayer of Teresa 
Girardi. And'vvhen, under the auspices of Madame Menon, she 
came to offer her grateful thanks to the general, the veteran, 
touched by the devotedness of her filial tenderness, laying aside 
for a moment the harshness of his nature, took the young girl 
kindly by the arm, as he addressed her. 

“You must come and visit my wife from time to time,” said 
he. “ In about a month’s time she may have good news to tell 
you.” 

And Teresa, nothing doubting that the good news would consist 
in an order for her readmission into the fortress of Fenestrella, to 
pass a portion of every day with her father, threw herself at the 
feet of the general with a countenance bright with joy, loading 
him with grateful acknowledgments. 

While all this was proceeding undreamed of by the two cap- 
tives, Charney and Girardi sat enjoying on their bench a glorious 
October sunshine, restoring, or rather forestalling around them, 
the warmth and promise of spring. Both were pensive and silent, 
leaning severally on the opposite arms which closed in the rustic 
seat. They might have passed for estranged or indifferent to each 
other, but for the wistful looks cast from time to time by Charney 
upon his companion, who was absorbed in a profound reverie. It 
was not often that the countenance of Girardi was overshadowed 
by sadness — no wonder, therefore, that the Count should mistake 
the motives of his depression. 

“Yes!” cried he, replying, as he fancied, to the looks of his 
friend; “captivity is, indeed, a purgatory! To be imprisoned 
for an imaginary offence, — to live apart from all we love.” 

But ere he could proceed, Girardi, raising his head, gazed with 
surprise upon the Count. “True, my dear friend !” he replied; 
“ separation is one of the severest trials of human fortitude !” 

“/your friend L” interrupted Charney, with bitterness. “Have 
you the charity to bestow such a name upon me — upon me, who 
am the cause of your being parted from her? for it is of you? 
daughter you are thinking! Deny it not! Teresa is the object 
of these mournful meditations; and, at such a moment, how odious 
must I be in your sight !” 

“ Believe me, you are mistaken in your conjectures,” mildly 
interrupted the venerable man. “ Never was the image of my 
daughter invested with such consolatory associations as to-day. 
For Teresa has written to me; — I have received a letter from my 
child.” 

“Written to-you, — you have a letter from her, — they have suf 
fered it to reach your hands !” cried Charney, insensibly drawing 


PICCIOLA. 


131 


nearer to his companion. Then checking his exultation, he added, 
“ But you have, doubtless, learned some afflicting tidings?” 

“ Far from it, I assure you.” 

“ Wherefore, then, this depression?” 

“Alas! my dear friend, such is the frailty of human nature; 
such is the mingled yarn of human destiny ! A regret is sure to 
embitter our sweetest hopes. The happiness of this life casts its 
shadow before, and it is by the shadow that our attention is first 
attracted. You spoke of separation from those we love. Here 
is my letter ! — read it, and learn what considerations depress my 
'' spirits while seated by your side.” 

Charney took the letter, and for some moments held it unopened 
in his hand : — his eyes fixed on the countenance of Girardi, he 
seemed desirous of reading there the intelligence it contained. 
On examining the address he recognised with emotion the hand- 
writing of his precious billet; and at length unfolding the paper, 
attempted to read aloud the contents. But his voice faltered, — 
the words expired upon his lips; and stopping short, he concluded 
the letter almost inaudibly to himself. 

“ Dearest father,” wrote Teresa, “ bestow a thousand kisses 
upon the paper you hold in your hands; for a thousand and a 
thousand have I impressed upon it, as harvest for your venerated 
lips 1 

“ What joy for us both, this renewal of correspondence! It is 
to General Menon we are indebted for the concession ; — he it is 
who has put an end to a silence which, even more than distance, 
seemed to keep us asunder. Blessings be upon him ! Now, dear 
father, our thoughts, at least, may fly towards each other ; — I shall 
communicate my hopes to sustain your courage ; you, your griefs, 
in weeping over which I shall fancy I am weeping in your pre- 
sence ! But if a greater happiness, dearest father, were in reserve 
for us! For a moment, I beseech you, lay aside my letter, and 
summon your strength to hear the sudden joy I am about to excite 
in your bosom. Father ! If I were once more permitted to be 
with you! — to approach you, — to listen to your instruction, — to 
surround you with my attentions ! Throughout the two years in 
which we enjoyed this alleviation of our affliction, captivity seemed 
to sit lightly on your spirits; and I entertain the hope, — yes, the 
earnest, earnest hope, that the favour will be again vouchsafed 
jjie; — that I shall be once more permitted to enter your prison !” 

“ Teresa about to visit you ! — here in the fortress !” cried Char- 
ney, wild with joy. 

“Read on!” — replied the old man, in a melancholy tone, — 
“ read on !” 

“ I shall be once more permitted to enter your prison,” resumed 
Charney, repeating the last sentence. “ Are you not happy in 


132 


P I C C I 0 L A . 


such a prospect? Are you not overjoyed?” continued Teresa. 
“■ Pause a moment, to consider the good tidings I have thus an- 
nounced ! Do not hurry on towards the conclusion of my letter. 
Violent emotions are sometimes dangerous. Have I not already 
said enough? Were an angel to descend from heaven, charged 
with the accomplishment of our wishes, you would not presume 
to require more; but I, your child, might venture, ere he re- 
ascended to his native skies, I might be tempted to implore your 
liberation from captivity. At your age, father, it is a cruel thing 
to be denied the sight of your native country. The banks of our 
beloved Doria are so beautiful and in our gardens on the Col- 
lina, the trees planted by my poor mother and brother have 
acquired surprising growth during your absence. There, more 
than on any other spot, survives the precious memory of those w^e 
have lost. 

“Then, father, there are your friends; — the friends who have 
supported, by their generous efforts, my applications to govern- 
ment. I am sure you regret your absence from them ; I am sure 
you would delight in seeing them again. Oh ! father, father ! the 
pen seems to burn in my hand ! My secret is about to escape me ! 
It has, probably, already escaped me! You have, doubtless, sum- 
moned all your courage to learn definitively that, in a few days, I 
am about to rejoin you, not to lend my aid in softening your cap- 
tivity, but to announce its termination ; not to be with you at 
stated hours, and within the walls of a prison ; but to carry you 
away with me in triumph from Fenestrella; — free, proud, — ay, 
proud 1 — for you have now a right to resume your pride. Your 
faithful friends, Cotenna and Delarue, did not rest till they ob- 
tained, not your pardon, but your justification. Yes, your inno- 
cence is fully recognised by the imperial government. 

“ Farewell, dearest and best of fathers. How I love you ! how 
happy do I feel at this moment 1 and how much happier shall I be 
when again folded in your arms! Your own 

“ Teresa.” 

The letter jdid not contain a single word in reference to Char- 
ney. That word — that hoped-for word — how eagerly did he seek 
for it in every page and line ! — how eagerly, and how vainly. Yet, 
notwithstanding his disappointment, it was a cry of joy that burst 
from the lips of the Count, when he concluded the letter. 

“You will soon be free!” cried he; “soon able to rest under 
the shadow of green trees, and behold the rising of the sun !” 

“Yes!” replied the old man. “But I am also about to leave 
you! Such is the shadow which precedes my happiness to-day, to 
prevent my joy from falling into excess.” 

“ Think not of me, I beseech you !” cried Charney ; proving, by 


PICCIOLA. 


133 


his generous transports, and forgetfulness of self, how truly he 
deserved the friendship of which he was the object. “At last, you 
will be restored to her arms ! At last, she will cease to suffer from 
the consequence of my rashness ! You will be happy, and I no 
longer oppressed by the heaviness of remorse. During the last few 
hours that remain for us to be together, we may at least talk of 
her unreservedly.” 

And, as he uttered these last incoherent words, the Count de 
Charney threw himself into the arms of his venerable friend. 


CHAPTER VII. 

The knowledge of their approaching separation seemed only to 
augment the tender affection existing between the two friends. 
Seldom an hour apart, both seemed eager to continue till the last 
moment their conferences on the bench of the little court. 

There was a solemn subject, to which Girardi often endeavoured 
to lead the way ; but Charney invariably evaded the discussion. 
The old man was, however, too deeply interested in sounding the 
opinions of the Count to be easily discouraged ; and one day an 
occasion unexpectedly presented itself for the accomplishment of 
his wishes. 

“ How unaccountable the chance,” cried Charney, after a short 
silence, “which united us in this place; naturally divided as we 
are by difference of birth-place, of languages, of faith, of pre- 
judices ! Yet, in spite of all these obstacles, we have met at 
Fenestrella, to unite in the same religious principles, the same 
adoration of the one supreme Being.” 

“ On that point, give me leave to differ with you,” said Girardi, 
with a ^mile. “ To lose sight of, is not to deny. Our views have 
never been the same.” 

“ Certainly not. But which of the two, the bigot or the scep- 
tic, was most mistaken ? — which the most deserving pity ?” 

“Yourself!” replied the old man, without hesitation, — “yes, 
my dear young friend, yourself! All extremes are dangerous; but 
in superstition, there is faith, passion, vitality ; and in scepticism, 
universal night, — universal death. Superstition is the pure stream 
diverted from its natural channel, which inundates, submerges, 
and displaces the vegetable soil; but conveys it elsewhere, and 
repairs, farther on its course, the injuries it has produced ; while 
scepticism is drought, dearth, sterility ; burning and scorching up, 
transmuting earth to sand, and rendering the mighty Palmyra a 
12 


134 


PIC C I 0 LA. 


ruin of the oesert. Not content with placing an eternal bar be- 
twixt us and the Creator, incredulity relaxes the bonds of society, 
and destroys the ties of kindred and alfection. , In depriving man 
of his importance as a being eternally responsible, it creates around 
him isolation and contempt. He is alone in the world, — alone 
with his pride ; or, as I said before, alone as a ruin in the desert.” 

“Alone with his pride!” murmured Charney, reclining his 
elbow on the arm of the bench, and his face upon his hand. 
“Pride! — of what I — of knowledge? — of science? Oh! why 
should man labour to destroy the elements of his happiness, by 
seeking to analyze them, or to sound their depths? Even if in- 
debted for his joys to a deception, why seek to raise the mask, 
and accelerate the disenchantment of his future life? Is truth so 
dear to him? Does knowledge suffice the desires of his ambition? 
Madman ! — such was my own delusion. ‘ I am but a worm,’ said 
I to myself, ‘ a worm destined to annihilation then, raising my- 
self in the dust where I was crawling, I felt proud of the dis- 
covery, — vain of my helpless nakedness. I believed neither in 
virtue nor happiness; but, at the thought of annihilation, I stop- 
ped proudly short, and accorded my unlimited faith. My degra- 
dation appeared a triumph to me, — for it was assured by a dis- 
covery of my own. Was I not justified in my estimation of a 
theory, for which I had given in exchange no less than my regal 
mantle, — the countless treasure of my immortality?” 

The old man extended his hand encouragingly towards his com- 
panion. 

“ Be judged by your own image of the worm,” said Girardi. 
“ The worm, after crawling its season on the earth, fed with bitter 
leaves, condemned to the slime of the marsh, or the dust of the 
road, constructs his own chrysalis, a temporary coffin ; from which 
to emerge, transformed, purified, — to flutter from flower to flower, 
and feed upon their precious perfumes. On two radiant wings, 
the new creature takes its flight towards the skies, even as man, 
the image of his Creator, rises to the bosom of his God.” ^ 

Charney replied by a negative movement of the head. 

“ Your disease was more deeply rooted than my own,” observed 
Girardi, with a mournful smile, “ for your convalescence, I see, 
will be more tedious. Have you already forgot the lessons of 
Picciola?” 

“Not one of them !” replied Charney, in a tone of deep emo- 
tion. “ I believe in God. I believe in a first cause. I believe 
in an omniscient Power, the eternal Controller of the universe. 
But your comparison of the worm supposes the immortality of the 
soul ; and by what is it demonstrated to my reason ?” 

“ By the instincts of the human squI, which irresistibly impel 
us to look forward with hope and joy. Our life is a life of expec- 


P I C C I O L A . 


135 


tation. From infancy to old age, hope is the dominating pole of 
our destinies. In what savage nation of the earth has not the doc- 
trine of a future state been found existent! And why should not 
the hope thus conceded be accomplished? Is the power of God 
more infinite than the mind of his creatures? I do not invoke the 
authority of revelation and the Holy Scriptures. All convincing 
to myself : for you they possess no authority. The breeze which 
impels the ship, is powerless to move the rock : for the rock has 
no expanding sails to receive its impulse, and its feet are buried 
in the ponderous immobility of earth. Shall we believe in the 
eternity of matter, and not in that of the intelligence which 
serves to regulate our opinions concerning matter? Or are we to 
suppose that love, virtue, genius, result from the affinity of certain 
terrestrial molecules? Can that which is devoid of thought enable 
us to think? Can brute matter be the basis of human intelli- 
gence, when human intelligence is able to direct and govern 
matter? 'Why then do not stocks and stones think and feel as 
we do?” 

“ Locke, the great English metaphysician, was inclined to sup- 
pose that matter might be endowed wdth ideas,” observed Char- 
ney “ 'i'here was contradiction, indeed, in his theory, since he 
rejected the doctrine of innate ideas, and seemed to admit the 
possibility of intuitive knowledge.” Then interrupting himself 
with a laugh, the Count exclaimed, “ Have a care, my kind in- 
structor ! I see you would fain involve me once more in the 
quicksand of doubt, or plunge me into the bottomless pit of meta- 
physics !” 

“ I have no knowledge of metaphysics,” said Girard i, gravely. 

“ And I but little,” observed Charney ; “ not, however, for want 
of devoting my time to the study. But let us drop a subject un- 
profitable, and, perhaps, injurious. You believe, — rejoice in your 
belief! Your faith is dear to you ; and if, perchance, I should 
shake its foundations” — 

“I defy you to the contest!” cried Girardi. 

What have you to gain by the result?” 

“Your conversion; nothing less, my dear young friend, than 
your conversion. Just now you quoted Locke. Of that eminent 
philosopher I know bur a single trait; — that through life, and 
even on his death-bed, he asserted the true happiness of mankind 
to consist in purity of conscience, and hope in eternal life.” 

“ I perfectly comprehend the consolation to be derived from 
such a creed ; but my better reason forbids me to accept it. I 
entreat you, let us drop the subject,” said the Count de Charney. 

And a constrained silence ensued. 

Soon afterwards, something which had been circling over- 
head, suddenly alighted on the foliage of the plant; a greenish 


136 


PICCIOL A. 


insect, of which the narrow corslet was undulated with whitish 
stripes. 

“Sir!” cried Charney, “behold in good time a new text en- 
abling you to enlarge upon the mysteries of creation.” 

Girardi took the insect with due precaution : examined it care- 
fully; paused for reflection; and suddenly an expression of tri- 
umph developed itself in his countenance. An irresistible argu- 
ment seemed to have fallen from heaven in his hands. Com- 
mencing in his usual professional tone, he gradually assumed a 
more sublime expression, as the secret object of his lesson pene- 
trated through his language. 

“ Mere fly-catcher as I am,” he began with an arch smile, “ I 
must restrict myself to my humble attributions, and not presume 
to affect the pedantry of the scholar.” 

“ The most enlightened mind,” said Charney, “ the mind which 
has profited most largely by the acquirement of knowledge, is that 
which soonest discovers the limitation of, its own powers, after 
vainly attempting to penetrate into the hidden mysteries of things. 
Genius itself breaks its wings against such obstacles, without 
having extracted from the wall of flints, by which it is obstructed, 
one spark of the light of truth.” 

“We ignoramuses,” observed Girardi, “arrive sooner at our 
object, by taking the most direct road. If we do but open our 
eyes, God deigns to reveal himself in the august sublimity of his 
works.” 

“ On that point we are agreed,” interrupted Charney. 

“ Proceed we then in our course. An herb of the field sufliced 
to prove to you the existence of a Providence; a butterfly, the law 
of universal harmony : the insect before us, of which the organi- 
zation is of a still higher order, may lead us still farther towards 
conviction.” 

Charney, at the instance of his friend, proceeded to examine 
the little stranger with curious attention. 

“ Behold this insignificant creature,” resumed Girardi. “All 
that human genius could effect, would not add one tittle to an 
organization, perfectly adapted to its wants and necessities. It 
has wings to transport it from one place to another; elytra to in- 
case and secure them from the contact of any hard substance. 
Its breast is defended by a cuirass, its eyes by a curious network 
that defies the prick of a thorn or the sting of an enemy! It pos- 
sesses antennae to interrogate the obstacles that present themselves, 
— feet to attain its prey, — iron mandibles to assist in devouring it, 
in digging the earth for a refuge, or a depository for its food or 
eggs. If a dangerous adversary should approach, it has in reserve 
an acrid and corrosive fluid, by discharging which it defies its 
enemies. Instinct teaches it to find its food, to provide its lodg- 


PIC C I 0 LA. 


137 


ing, and exercise its powers of offence and defence. Nor is this 
a solitary instance. Other insects are endowed with sinriilar deli- 
cacy of organization; — the imagination recoils with wonder from 
the multiplicity and variety of provisions invented by nature for 
the security of the apparently feeble insect tribe. We have still 
.to consider this fragile creature as demonstrating the line of de- 
marcation between mankind and the brute creation. 

“ Man is sent naked into the world, — feeble, helpless, — unen- 
dowed with the wings of a bird, the swiftness of the stag, the tor- 
tuous speed of the serpent; wuthout means of defence against the 
claws or darts of an enemy, nay, agaihst even the inclemency of 
the weather. He has no shell, no fleece, no covering of fur, nor 
even a den or burrow for his hiding-place. Yet by force of his 
natural powers, he has driven the lion from his cave, — despoiled 
the bear of his shaggy coat for a vestment, and the bull of his 
horn to form a drinking-cup. He has dug into the entrails of the 
earth, to bring forth elements of future strength; the very eagle, 
in traversing the skies, finds itself struck down in the midst of 
its career to adorn his cap with a trophy of distinction. 

“Which of all the animal creation could have supported itself 
in the midst of such difficulties and such privations? Let us for 
a moment suppose the disunion of power and action, — of God 
and nature. Nature has done wonders for the insect before us; 
for man, apparently nothing. Because man, an emanation from 
God himself, and formed after his image, was created feeble and 
helpless as regards the organization of matter, in order to demon- 
strate the divine influence of that ethereal Spark, which endow'S 
him with all the elements of future greatness.” 

“Explain to me, at least,” interrupted Charney, “the peculiar 
value of this precious gift, bestow’ed, you say, exclusively upon 
the human species; — superior in many points to the animal crea- 
tion, surely we are inferior in the majority. This very insect, 
whose wondrous powers you have expounded, inspires me with a 
sense of inferiority and profound humiliation.” 

“ From time immemorial,”* replied Girardi, “ animals have dis- 
played no progress in their powers of operation. What they are 
to-day, sucli have they ever been; what to-day they know, they 
have known from the beginning of the world. If born so lavishly 
endowed, it is because they are incapable of improvement. They 
live not by their own will, but by the impulse imparted to them 
bv nature. From the creation until now, the beaver has con- 
structed his lodge upon the same plan; the caterpillar and spider 
woven their cocoons and tissues of the same form ; the bee pro- 
jected his cell of the same hexagon ; the lion-ant traced, without a 
compass, its circles and arches. The character of their labours 
is that of exactitude and uniformity; that of man, diversity, — for 


38 


P 1 C C I 0 L A . 


human labour arises from a free and creative faculty of mind. 
Judge therefore between them! — Of all created beings, man 
alone possesses the idea of duty, of responsibility, of contempla- 
tion, of piety. Alone of all the earth he is endowed with insight 
into futurity, and the knowledge of life and death.” 

“But is tliis knowledge an advantage? is it a source of happi- 
ness?” demanded the Count. “Why has God bestowed upon us 
reason by which we are led astray, and learning which serves but 
to perplex us? With all our superiority, how often are we forced 
to despise ourselves! — Why is the exclusively privileged being 
the only one liable to error ? Is not the instinct of animals pre- 
ferable to our glimmering reason?” 

“ Both species were not created for the same end. God re- 
quires not virtue of the brute creation. Were they endowed with 
reason, with liberty of choice as regards their food and lodgment, 
the equilibrium of the world would be destroyed. The will of 
the Creator decided that the surface of the globe, and even its 
depths, should be filled with animated beings, — that life should 
pervade the universe; in pursuance of which, plains, valleys, 
forests, from the mountain top to the lowest chasms, — trees, rocks, 
rivers, lakes, oceans, from the sandy desert to the marshy swamp, 
— in all climates and latitudes, — from one pole to the other, — all 
is peopled, — all instinct with life, all blended in one vast sphere 
of existence. Whether sheltered in the depths of the wilderness, 
or behind a blade of grass, the lion and the pismire are alike at 
the post assigned them by nature. Each has his part to play, his 
place to guard, his predestined line of action ; each is enchained 
within his proper bound ; for every square of the infinite chess- 
board was from the first appropriately filled. Man alone is free to 
range over all, to traverse oceans and deserts; — pitch his tent on 
the sand, or construct a floating palace on the waters; to defy the 
Alpine snows or the fervours of the torrid zone : — 

“ ‘ The world is all before him, where to choose 
His place of rest, and Providence his guide 1’ “ 

“ But if Providence indeed exert such influence, from whence 
the crimes arising in all human communities, and the disasters 
which overwhelm mankind ?” cried Charney. “ I sympathize in 
your admiration of all created things; my reason is overwhelmed 
when I examine the mighty whole, but on descending to the his 
tory of the human specjes — ” 

“My friend,” interrupted Girardi, “arraign not the wisdom of 
the Almighty because of the errors of mankind, the devastations 
of a hurricane, or the eruptions oT a volcano ! Immutable laws 
are imprinted upon matter ; and the work of ages is accomplished, 
whether a vessel founder in a storm, or a city disappear beneath 


PICCIOLA. 


139 


the surface of the earth. Of what account in the sight of the 
Almighty a few human existences more or less? Does the Su- 
preme Being believe in the reality of death, the darkness of the 
grave ? 

“ No! But He has conferred on our souls the power of self- 
government, and this is proved by the independence of our pas- 
sions. I have portrayed animals submitted to the irresistible influ- 
ence of instinct, — possessing only blind tendencies, and the 
qualities inherent in their several species. Man alone is the pa- 
rent of his virtues and his vices ; man alone is endowed with free 
agency; because for him this earth is a place of probation. The 
tree of good and evil which we cultivate here, is to bear its fruits 
in a higher or a lower region. Do you imagine the omniscient 
God so unjust as to leave the afflictions of the virtuous unrewarded? 
Were this world the limit of our reward and punishment, the man 
who dies by a stroke of lightning ought to be accounted a male- 
factor, and the fortune of the prosperous should suffice as a certi- 
fication of excellence !” 

Charney listened in silence : impressed by the simple eloquence 
of his instructor, his eyes were fixed upon the noble countenance 
on which the excitement of a mind innately pious was imprinting 
an almost august character of inspiration. 

“ But why,” at length murmured the Count, “ why has not God 
vouchsafed us the positive certainty of our immortality ?” 

“ Doubt was perhaps indispensable,” replied the venerable man, 
rising and placing his hand affectionately on the shoulder of his 
youthful companion, “ to repress the vanity of human reason. 
What is the merit of virtue, if its rewards be assured beforehand? 
What would become of free will ? The soul of man is expansive, 
but not infinite ; — vast in its power of apprehending its own dis- 
tinctions, and of appreciating the Creator by the mightiness of his 
works; yet so limited as to render it profoundly sensible of its 
dependence upon Providence. Man is permitted a glimpse of his 
destinies — Faith must effect the rest. 

“Oh! mighty and all-seeing God !” cried Girardi, — suddenly 
interrupting himself, and clasping his hands in all the fervour of 
supplication, “ lend me the strength of thine arm to upraise from 
the dust this man who is struggling with his human weakness and 
the desire to reach thy fountains of light! Lend me thy wisdom 
to direct the aspirations of this longing and bewildered soul ! 
Lend eloquence to the words of my lips, that they may be endued 
with the strength and power of the faith that is in me ! The hum- 
blest of thy creations — a flower, and an insect — have startled the 
sceptic in his self-security; give grace to those, O Lord ! if not 
to me, to perfect the work thine infinite mercy has begun ; and if 


140 


PICCIOLA. 


not by me, by the humble plant before us, be the miracle of thy 
holiness accomplished !” 

The old man was silent. An ecstacy of prayer had taken pos- 
session of his'soul ; and when, at the close of his unuttered devo- 
tions, he turned towards his companion, Charney was bending his 
head upon his hands, clasped together upon the back of tlie bench 
where they were sitting. On raising his head, his countenance 
bore traces of the most devout meditation. 



CHAPTER VIII. 

In the purified heart of Charney, the blood now flowed more 
calmly: in his expanded mind, mild and consolatory ideas suc- 
ceeded each other in gentle gradation. Like the wise Pied- 
montese, his friend, he vvas fully alive to the conviction that hap- 
piness connects itself indissolubly with love of our fellow-creatures; 
and in striving to people his imagination with thos(‘ to wdiom he 
was bound by ties of gratitude; the Empress, Girardi, and Ludo- 
vico, presented themselves first to his mind. But at length, two 
female shadows became perceptible at either extremity of this 


P I C C I O L A . 


141 


rainbow of love, expanding after the storm, just as we see in altar- 
pieces, two seraphim, with brows inclined, and half-closed wings, 
supporting the arch of the picture. 

One of these shadows was the fairy of his dreams, — the maiden 
Picciola, emanating, fresh, fair, and blooming, from the perfumes 
of his flower; the other, the guardian angel of his prison, — his 
second providence, — Teresa Girardi, 

By a singular inconsistency, the former, whose existence was 
purely ideal, haunted his memory in a fixed, distinct, and positive 
form ; he could discern the varying expression of her brow, the 
glittering of her eye, the smile of her lips; — such as she had once 
appeared to him in his dreams, such was she ever manifested. 
Whereas Teresa, on whom he had never fixed his eyes, or only 
while still under the influence of a waking dream, under what 
traits could he summon her to his remembrance? In her instance, 
the countenance of the seraph was veiled ; and when Charney, in 
despair, attempted to raise the veil, it was still the face of Picciola 
that smiled upon him : of Picciola, multiplying herself as if for 
the purpose of interrupting the homage he would fain have offered 
to her rival. 

One morning, the prisoner of Fenestrella, though wide awake, 
fancied himself alarmingly deminated by this strange hallucination. 
The day was dawning. Having risen from his cheerless bed, he 
was musing upon Girardi, who, prepared for his speedy release 
from prison, had infused such tenderness into his adieu of the 
preceding night, that the Count had been kept all night sleepless 
by the impression of their approaching separation. After pacing 
his room for some time in silence, he looked out from his grated 
window upon the bench of conference, where, only the evening 
before, he had been engaged with Girardi in conversation relative 
to his daughter; and lo! through the gray-hued mists of autumn, 
he fancied he could discern a woman, — the figure of a young and 
graceful woman, — seated on the spot. She was alone, and in an 
inclining attitude ; as if engaged in contemplation of the flower 
before her. 

Recalling to mind the probability of Teresa’s arrival, Charney 
naturally exclaimed — ‘"It is herself! Teresa is arrived! I am 
about to see her for a moment, and then behold her face no more; 
and in losing her, I shall also be deprived of my venerated com- 
panion.” 

As he spoke, the figure turned towards his window; and the 
countenance revealed to him by the movement was no other than 
the, face of his dream-love — of Picciola, — still and always, Pic- 
ciola ! 

Stupified by the discovery, he passed his hand over his brow, 
his eyes, his garments, the cold iron bars of his window — in order 


142 


PICCIOL A. 


to be satisfied that he was awake, and that this time, at least, rt 
was not a dream. 

The young woman rose, moved a few paces towards him, and 
smiling and blushing, addressed him a confused gesture of saluta- 
tion ; but Charney made no acknowledgment, either of the smile 
or the gesture by which it was accompanied. He kept his eye 
fixed upon the graceful form which traversed the misty court; a 
form in every point resembling that with which his ideal Picciola 
was invested in the dreams of his solitude. Fancying himself 
under the- influence of delirium, he threw himself on the bed, in 
hopes of recovering his composure and presence of mind. Some 
minutes afterwards, the door opened, and Ludovico made his ap- 
pearance. 

oim^! — Sad news and great news, eccellenzaV' cried 
he. “ One of my birds is about to take flight — not over the walls, 
indeed, but over the drawbridge. So much the better for him, 
and the worse for you.” 

“Is it to be to-day, then?” demanded Charney, in a tone of 
emotion. 

“I hardly know. Signor Conte; but it can’t be far oflT; for the 
act of release has been already signed in Paris, and is known to 
be on its way to Turin; at least, so the young lady just now told 
her father in my hearing.” 

“How!” cried Charney, starting from his reclining attitude. 
“She is arrived, then — she is here!” 

“At Fenestrella, eccellenza, since yesterday evening, and pro- 
vided with a formal order for her admission into the fortress. But 
there is a special injunction against letting down the drawbridge 
after hours, for a female ; so she was obliged to put off her visit 
till this morning, Capo di Dio! I knew she was there, but kept 
the secret as close as wax. Not a syllable did I let fall before the 
poor old gentleman, or he would not have had a wink of sleep. 
The night would have seemed as long as ten, had he known that 
his child was so near. This morning she was up before the sun ; 
and waited for admittance at the gates of the citadel, in the morn- 
ing fogs, — like a good soul and good daughter, as she is.” 

“And did she not wait some time in the courtyard, — seated 
yonder on the bench?” cried Charney, confounded by all he was 
hearing. And, rushing to the window, he cast an inquiring glance 
anew upon the little court, adding, in an altered voice, “ But she is 
gone, I see I she is there no longer !” 

“Of course not, — now; but she was there half an hour ago,” 
replied the gaoler. “ She stayed in the court while I went up 
stairs to prepare her father for the visit; for the poor young lady 
had heard that people may die of joy. Joy, you see, excellenza^ is 
like spirituous liquors ; — a thimblefull, now and then, does a man 


PIC CIOL A. 


143 


a power of good ; but, let him toss off a whole gourd, and there ’s 
an end of him at once. Now, bless their poor hearts, they are 
together; and, seeing them so happy, Bacco, I found myself 
suddenly all of a no-how; which made me think of your excel- 
lency, and how you were about to be deprived of your friend ; 
and so I made off to remind you that Ludovico will still be left 
you, — to say nothing of Picciola. To be sure, poor thing, she is 
losing her beauty; — scarce a leaf left. But that is the natural 
effect of the season. You must not despise her for that.” 

And the gaoler quitted the room, without waiting the reply of 
Charney ; who, deeply affected, vainly tried to explain to himself 
the mysteries of his vision. He was now almost persuaded that 
the sweet figure by which his dreams were haunted, to which he 
had assigned the name of Picciola, was the creature of remi- 
niscence; — that, absorbed by interest in his plant, he had cast his 
eyes on Teresa Girardi, as she stood at the grated window, and 
unwittingly received an impression eventually reproduced by his 
dreams. 

While he was thus reasoning, the murmur of two voices reached 
nim from the stairs; and, in addition to the well-known steps of 
the old man, gliding over the stones, he could distinguish the light, 
airy foot of one who scarcely seemed to touch the steps as she de- 
scended. At length, the measured sound ceased at his door. He 
started. But Girardi made his appearance alone. 

“ My daughter is here,” said the old man. “ She is waiting for 
us beside your plant.” 

Charney followed in silence. He had not courage to articulate 
a syllable. A consciousness of pain and constraint chased every 
feeling of pleasure from his heart. 

Was this the consequence of being about to present himself be- 
fore a woman to whom he was so largely indebted, and towards 
whom it was impossible for him to discharge the obligation; or of 
shame for his ungraciousness of the morning, in neglecting to re- 
turn her smile and salutation? As the time of separation from 
Girardi approached, were his fortitude and resignation forsaking 
him ? No matter what the motive of his embarrassment in pre- 
senting himself before Teresa Girardi, no one could have dis- 
cerned, in his language or demeanour, traces of the brilliant and 
popular Count de Charney: — the ease of the man of the world, 
the self-possession of the philosopher, had given place to an awk- 
wardness, a hesitation, which called forth, in the answers of Teresa, 
a correspondent tone of coldness and circumspection. 

In spite of all Girardi’s exertions to place his daughter and his 
friend on an agreeable footing, their conversation turned only 
upon indifterent subjects, or trite remarks upon the dawning 
hopes of all parties. Having in some degree recovered from his 


144 


PI C Cl 0 LA. 


emotion, Charney read, in the features of the lovely Piedmontese, 
only tiie most complete indifference; and persuaded himself that 
the services she had rendered him had been instigated by the 
impulses of a generous disposition ; or, perhaps, by the commands 
of her father. 

Charney began almost to regret that the interview had taken 
place; for he felt that he could never more invest her, in his reve- 
ries, with her former fascinations. While all three were seated on 
the bench, Girardi, wrapt in contemplation of his daughter, and 
Charney giving utterance to a few cold, incoherent remarks, there 
escaped, from the folds of Teresa’s dress, as she was drawn sud- 
denly forward, by the tender embrace of her father, a medallion 
of gold and crystal. On stooping to pick it up, Charney could 
readily discern that one side was occupied by a lock of her father’s 
gray hair ; and the other by a withered flower. He looked again ; 
he gazed anxiously ; he could not mistake it. I'lie hidden trea- 
sure was the identical flower of Picciola which he had sent her 
by Ludovico. 

Teresa had kept his flower, then — had preserved it — treasured 
it with the gray hairs of her father — the father whom she adored ! 
The flower of Picciola no longer adorned the raven tresses of the 
young girl, but rested upon her heart! This discovery produced 
an instantaneous revolution in the sentiments of Charney. He 
began to reconsider the charms of Teresa, as if a new personage 
had offered herself to his observation — as if he had seen her meta- 
morphosed by enchantment before his eyes. 

The Count now perceived that, as she turned her expressive 
looks towards her father, the two-fold character of tenderness and 
placidity impressed upon her beauty, was analogous with that of 
Raphael’s Madonnas ; — that she was lovely with the loveliness of 
a pure and perfect soul. Charney retraced, with deliberate admi- 
ration, her animated profile — her countenance, expressive of the 
union of strength and softness, energy and timidity. It was long 
since he had looked upon a new human face ; — how much longer 
since he had contemplated, in combination, youth, beauty, and 
virtue! The spectacle seemed to intoxicate his senses; and, after 
a glance at the graceful form and perfect symmetry of Teresa 
Girardi, his wandering eyes fixed themselves once more on the 
medallion. 

“You did not disdain my humble offering, then!” faltered the 
Count; and faint as was the whisper in which the words were 
conveyed, they roused the pride of Teresa ; who, advancing her 
hand to receive the trinket, replaced it hurriedly in her dress. 
But at that moment she was struck by the change of expression 
visible in the features of the Count; and both their faces became 
sutfused with blushes. 


P I C C I O L A : 


145 


“What is the matter, my dear child?” demanded Girardi, no- 
ticing her confusion. 

“Nothing!” she replied, with emotion. Then, as if ashamed 
of playing the hypocrite with her parent, suddenly added, “ This 
medallion, father, contains a lock of your hair.” Then, as she 
turned towards Charney, — “And this flower, sir, is the one you 
sent me by Ludovico. I have preserved it, and shall keep it for- 
ever.” 

In her words, — in the sound of her voice, — in the intuitive 
modesty which induced her to unite her father and the stranger 
in her explanations, there was at once so much ingenuousness and 
purity of feminine instinct, that Charney began for the first time 
to appreciate the true merits of Teresa Girardi. 

The remainder of that happy day elapsed amid effusions of 
mutual friendship, which every moment seemed to enhance. In- 
dependent of the secret power which attracts us towards another, 
the progress of friendship is always rapid in proportion to the 
time we know to be allowed us for the cultivation of dawning par- 
tiality. This was the first day that Charney and Teresa had con- 
versed together ; but they had had occasion to think so much of 
each other, and so few hours were assigned them to be together, 
that a mutual acquaintance was speedily accomplished; so that, 
when Charney, impelled by ,good breeding and good feeling, 
would fain have retired, in order to afford an opportunity to the 
father and daughter, so long separated, to converse together alone, 
Girardi and Teresa alike opposed the movement of retreat. 

“Are you about to leave us 1” said the latter. “ Do you, then, 
consider yourself a stranger to my father, or to me ?” added the 
young girl in a tone of gentle reproach. And, in order to make 
him fully apprehend how little restraint was imposed upon her, 
by his presence, Teresa began to detail to her father all that 
had befallen her from the moment of her departure from Fenes- 
trella, and the means she had employed to bring together the two 
captives ; addressing, at the conclusion of her narrative, a request 
to Charney, to relate all the little events of the citadel, and the 
progress of his studies connected with Picciola. After this ap- 
peal, the Count did not hesitate to confess the history of his early 
miseries, — the tedium of his captivity, — and the blessing vouch- 
safed him in the arrival of his plant: while Teresa, gay and naive, 
stimulated his confession, by the liveliness of her inquiries and 
repartees. 

Seated between the two, and holding a hand of each, — of the 
daughter thus restored to him, and the friend he was about to 
Jeave, — the venerable Girardi listened to their discourse with an 
air of mingled joy and sadness. At one moment, when, by a 
spontaneous movement, he was about to clasp his hands, thos» 


146 


PICCIOLA. 


of Charney and Teresa were brought almost into contact, the two 
young people appeared startled, touched, embarrassed, and, though 
silent, communicated their emotion to each other by a rapid 
glance. But, without affectation or prudery, Teresa soon disen- 
gaged her hand from that of her father ; and, placing it affection- 
ately on his shoulder, looked smilingly towards the Count, as if 
inviting him to resume his narrative. 

Enchanted and emboldened by so much grace and candour, 
Charney described the reveries produced by the emanations of 
his plant. How could he forbear allusion to that which consti- 
tuted the great event of his captivity ? He spoke of the fair being 
whom he had been induced to worship as the personification of 
Picciola ; and, while tracing her portrait with warmth, — or rather 
transport, — the smiles of Teresa gradually disappeared, and her 
bosom swelled with agitation. 

The narrator was careful to assign no name to the soft image 
he tried to call up before their eyes ; but when, in completing the 
history of the disasters of his plant, he reached the moment when, 
by order of the commandant, the dying Picciola was on the eve 
of being torn up before his eyes, Teresa could not refrain from a 
cry of sympathy. 

“ My poor Picciola !” cried she.' 

Thine!'' reiterated her father, with a smile. 

“Yes, mine! Did I not contribute to her preservation?” per- 
sisted Teresa. 

And Charney, in confirming her title to the adoption, felt as if, 
from that moment, a sacred bond of community were established 
between them for evermore. 


CHAPTER IX. 

Gladly would the Count de Charney have renounced his liberty 
for the remainder of his days, could he have secured the sentence 
of passing them at Fenestrella, between Teresa Girardi and her 
father. He no longer deceived himself. He felt that he loved 
Teresa as he had never loved before. A sentiment to which his 
breast had hitherto been a stranger, now penetrated into its depths, 
impetuous and gentle, sweet and stimulating, like some acid fruit 
of the tropics, at once sweet and refreshing. His new passion re- 
vealed itself not only by transports hitherto unknown, but by the { 
serene glow of a holy tenderness, embracing universal nature ; j 
nay, the great Lord and Creator of nature and nature’s works. } 


PICCIOL A. 


147 


His brain, his heart, his whole existence, seemed to dilate, as if to 
embrace the new hopes, projects, and emotions, crowding on his 
regenerate existence. 

Next day, the three friends met again beside Picciola ; Girardi 
and the Count occupying their bench, and Teresa a chair of state, 
placed opposite them by the gallantry of Ludovico. She had 
brought with her some task of woman’s work, some strip of deli- 
cate embroidery, over which her soft countenance inclined, her 
graceful head following the movements of her needle ; and every 
now and then raising her eyes and suspending her work, to inter- 
pose some playful remark in their grave dissertations. At length 
suddenly rising, she crossed over towards her father, threw her 
arms round his neck, and pressed her lips repeatedly to his re- 
verend locks. 

The conversation between the two disputants was not renewed: 
for Charney was already absorbed in profound meditation. He 
could not forbear inquiring of himself whether he were beloved 
in return by Teresa! — a question which produced two conflicting 
sentiments in his bosom. He feared to believe — he trembled to 
doubt. The flower — his gift — so carefully preserved, — the emotion 
evinced when their hands were accidentally united on the knees 
of the old man, — the tremor with which she had listened to the 
recital of his impassioned dreams, — all this was in his favour. But 
the words breathed with so tender an inflexion of voice had been 
pronounced in the presence of her father ; what sense, therefore, 
dared he assign to her tokens of compassion, her deeds of kind- 
ness and devotion ? Had she not afforded proofs of the same good- 
will before they had even met — before even an interchange of looks 
and words had taken place between them ? What right has he to 
interpret in his favour, the indications of feeling he has since de- 
tected in her deportment? 

No matter : of his own attachment, at least, he is certain. He 
not only loves Teresa, but has sworn within his heart of hearts to 
love her through life and death; substituting for an ideal image, 
henceforward superfluous, one of the most charming realities of 
human nature. 

But the attachment of which he is thus conscious is a secret to 
be preserved in the inmost archives of his soul : it would be a 
sin, a crime, to invoke the participation of Teresa in his passion. 
What right has he to imbitter the happy prospects of her life? 
Are they not destined to Jive apart from each other ? sAe, free, 
happy, in the midst of a world which she embellishes, and where 
she will doubtless soon confer happiness on another in the bosom 
of domestic life; while Ae, in his solitary prison, must consecrate 
himself to eternal solitude and eternal regrets for his momentary 
happiness. 


148 


PICCIOLA. 


No ! his passion shall be sedulously concealed. He will assume 
towards Teresa Girardi the demeanour of a person wholly indif- 
ferent, or satisfy himself with the calm demonstrations of a pru- 
dent and equable friendship. It would be too deep a misfortune 
for him — for both — were he to succeed in engaging her affections. 

Full of these fine projects for the future, the first sounds that 
meet his ear on the cessation of his reverie, were the following 
sentences interchanged between Teresa and her father, the former 
of whom was exerting all her eloquence to persuade the old man 
that the moment of his liberation was at hand; while Girardi 
persisted in expressing a conviction that the remainder of the 
year would expire without producing any material change in his 
destinies. “ I know the dilatoriness of public functionaries,” 
said he ; “I know the vacillations of government. So little suf- 
fices as a pretext for the suspension of justice, and the cooling of 
a great man’s mercy !” 

“ If such is your opinion,” cried Teresa, ** I will return tg-mor- 
row to Turin, to hasten the fulfilment of their promises.” 

What need of so much haste ?” demanded her father. 

“ How, dear father !” she replied, “ is it possible that you prefer 
your mean and narrow chamber, and this wretched court, to your 
beautiful villa and gardens on the Collina?” 

This seeming anxiety on the part of Teresa to leave Fenes- 
trella ought to have convinced Charney that he was beloved, and 
that the danger that he dreaded for the object of his romantic 
attachment was already consummated. But the part he had in- 
tended to play was now wholly frustrated. Instead of affecting 
indifference, tranquillity, or even the reserve of a prudent friend- 
ship, he manifested only the petulance of a lover. Teresa, how- 
ever, remained apparently unconscious of his fit of perversity; and 
was not deterred by his resentment from repeating, that if the 
decree of her father’s liberation should be again delayed, it was 
her duty to set off for Turin, and renew her solicitations to 
General Menon ; nay, even for Paris, for a personal application to 
the Emperor. Usually so reserved and mild, the fair Piedmontese 
seemed excited on the present occasion to unusual vivacity. 

“I scarcely understand you this morning,” said her father, 
amazed to observe the gaiety of her deportment in presence of 
the poor prisoner whom they were about to abandon to his mis- 
fortunes ; and if her father found something to regret in her de- 
meanour, how much rather the grieved and disappointed Char- 
ney ! 

The same reflections which had perplexed his mind the pre- 
ceding night had, in fact, been passing also through the mind of 
Teresa. She had discovered, not the arrival of Love in her bo- 
som, but that it had long resided there an unsuspected inmate : 


P I C C I 0 L A . 


149 


and though, like Charney, she would willingly have accepted, as 
regarded her own happiness, the perils and privations with which 
it was accompanied, like Charney she was reluctant that all these 
should be inflicted upon another. The delight of loving, the dread 
of being loved, threw her into a state of mental contradiction, and 
produced the garrulity in which she sought refuge from herself. 

Soon, however, all this constraint, all these efforts to disguise 
their real sentiments, were suddenly dropped on both sides. After 
listening attentively to the information imparted by Girardi, who 
mentioned frequent instances where the pardon of prisoners, though 
publicly announced, had not been suffered to take effect for many 
succeeding months, the young people allowed themselves to be 
convinced ; and with mutual and unconcealed delight, began form- 
ing projects for the morrow and succeeding days, as if, hencefor- 
ward, the fortress of Fenestrella were to be the home of their hap- 
piness and choice. Restored to the society of Teresa, their 
guardian angel, the two captives appeared to have but a single 
earthly misfortune to apprehend, the liberation of one of them to 
disunite the little party. 

Already, the philosophers were resuming their arguments, and 
Teresa her embroidery. The pale rays of the sun, partially illu- 
minating the little court, fell lightly on the countenance of Gi- 
rardi’s daughter, while a refreshing breeze played amid the folds 
of her drapery and the floating ribands by which it was confined. 
At length, excited by the freshness of the atmosphere, she threw 
aside her work, rose from her seat, shook out the ringlets of her 
raven hair, rejoicing in the return of hope and sunshine, when 
suddenly the postern-door was thrown open, and Captain Morand, 
accompanied by Ludovico and a municipal officer, made his ap- 
pearance. 

They came to signify to Giacomo Girardi the act of his enlarge- 
ment. He was to quit Fenestrella without delay ; a carriage was 
in waiting at the extremity of the glacis to convey him and his 
daughter to Turin. 

At the moment of the commandant’s arrival, Teresa was stand- 
ing beside her father, but she instantly sank backward in her 
chair, resumed her needlework, and, had Charney ventured a look 
towards her, he would have been startled, on perceiving how in- 
stantaneously the hues of life and health had faded from her cheek. 
But Charney neither stirred nor raised his eyes from the ground, 
while Girardi was receiving from the hands of the officers those 
papers and documents which were to restore him, with an unble- 
mished reputation, to his station in society. All was now com- 
plete ; and there was no longer an excuse for prolonging the libe- 
rated prisoner’s preparations for departure. 

Ludovico had already brought down from Girardi’s chamber 

13 * 


150 


P I C C I O L A . 


the solitary trunk containing his effects; — the officers waited to 
escort him back to Turin; — the hour of parting had irrevocably 
struck. Rising once from her seat, Teresa began deliberately to 
put up her working materials, and arrange the scarf upon her 
shoulders ; she even tried to put on her gloves, but her hands 
trembled too much to effect her purpose. 

Charney stood for a moment paralysed by the blow. Then, 
arming himself with courage, he exclaimed, as he threw himself 
into the arms of Girardi — 

“Farewell, my dearest father!” 

“Farewell, my son! farewell, my beloved son,” faltered the 
good old man. “ Be of good cheer. Rely upon our exertions in 
your behalf; rely on the steadiness of our affection. Adieu, 
adieu !” 

For some moments longer Girardi held him pressed to his heart ; 
then, by a sudden effort, relinquishing his warm embrace, turned 
towards Ludovico, and, by way of concealing his own emotion, 
affected to busy himself by giving in charge to the gaoler the 
friend he was about to leave ; to which the poor fellow, perfectly 
comprehending the old'man’s motives, replied only by offering the 
support of his arm to conduct his faltering steps to the carriage. 

Charney, meanwhile, drew near to Teresa for the purpose of a 
last farewell. Leaning with one hand on the back of her chair, 
her eyes fixed on the ground, she stood motionless, speechless, as 
if there were no question of quitting the place. Even when the 
Count advanced towards her, she remained for some moments 
without speaking, till, irresistibly moved by his paleness and agi- 
tation, she exclaimed, “I call our Picciola to witness that” — 
But Teresa was not able to complete the sentence; her heart was 
too full to utter another syllable. One of her gloves at that mo- 
ment escaped her trembling hands, which Charney picked up; 
and, ere he restored it, raised it silently to his lips. 

“ Keep it 1” said she, while tears streamed down her cheeks ; 
“ keep it till we meet again.” 

Another moment, and she was following her father. They 
were gone ! All was dark in the destinies of the Count de Char- 
ney. After watching the closing of the postern-door, he stood like 
one petrified, with his eyes fixed on the spot where they had dis- 
appeared ; his hand still grasping convulsively the parting pledge 
bestowed upon him by Teresa. 


PIC CIOLA. 


151 


CONCLUSION. 

A PHILOSOPHER has remarked that greatness must be renounced 
before it can be appreciated ; the same thing might have been 
said of fortune, happiness, or any mode of enjoyment liable to be- 
come habitual. 

Never had the poor captive of Fenestrella so venerated the 
wisdom of Girardi, the charms and virtues of his daughter, as 
after the departure of his two companions ! Profound sadness 
succeeded to this momentary elation. The efforts of Ludovico, 
the attentions required by Picciola, were unsufficient to divert his 
attention from his sorrows. But at length, the sources of conso- 
lation he had derived from the study of nature brought forth their 
fruit; and the depressed Charney gradually resumed his strength 
of mind. 

His last stroke of affliction had perfected the happy frame of 
his feelings. His first impulse had been to bless the loneliness 
which afforded his whole leisure to muse upon his absent friends; 
but eventually he learned to behold with satisfaction a new guest 
seated in the vacant place of the old man. 

His first and most assiduous visiter was the chaplain of the 
prison : even the worthy priest whom during his illness he had so 
harshly repulsed. Apprised by Ludovico of the state of despair 
to which the prisoner was reduced, he made his appearance, for- 
getful of the past, to offer his good offices, which were received 
with courtesy and gratitude. More amicably disposed than for- 
merly towards mankind, the Count soon became favourably, nay, 
even affectionately disposed towards the man of God; and the 
rustic seat became once more the bench of conference. The 
philosopher loved to enlarge upon the wonders of his plant, the 
wonders of nature, and repeat the lessons of the excellent Gi- 
rardi ; while the priest, without bringing forward a single dogma 
of religion, contented himself, in the first instance, with reciting 
the sublime moral lessons of Christianity : grounding their strength 
upon the principles already imbibed by the votary of natural re- 
ligion. 

The second visiter was the commandant; and Charney now 
discovered that Morand was essentially a good sort of man, 
whose heart was militarily disciplined ; that is, disposed to tor- 
ment the unfortunate beings under his charge no farther than he 
was necessitated by the letter of government instructions. So 
just, too, did he show himself in his appreciation of the merits of 


152 


PICCIOLA. 


the two prisoners recently released, as almost to put Charney into 
good humour with petty tyranny. 

But all this was soon to end ; and it became Charney’s turn to 
bid adieu to the priest and the captain. One fine day, when least 
prepared for the concession, the gates of his prison opened, anti 
he was set at liberty ! 

On Napoleon’s return from Austerlitz, incessantly importuned 
by Josephine, (who had probably some person besetting her in turn 
with supplications in favour of the prisoner of Fenestrella,) the 
Emperor caused an inquiry to be made into the nature of the 
papers seized among the effects of the Count de Charney. The 
cambric manuscripts were accordingly forwarded to the Tuileries, 
from the archives of the police, where they had been deposited ; 
and, attracted by the singularity of their appearance, Napoleon 
himself deigned to investigate the indications of treason contained 
in their mysterious records. 

“ The Count de Charney is a madman,” exclaimed the Emperor, 
after most deliberate examination ; “ a visionary and a madman ; 
but not the dangerous person represented to me. He who could 
submit his powers of mind to the influence of a sorry weed, may 
have in him the making of an excellent botanist, but not of a con- 
spirator. He is pardoned ! Let his estates be restored to him, 
that he may cultivate there, unmolested, his own fields, and his 
taste for natural history.” 

Need it be added that the Count did not loiter at Fenestrella 
after receiving this welcome intelligence; or that he did not quit 
the fortress alone? but, transplanted into a solid case, filled with 
good earth, Picciola made her triumphal exit from her gloomy 
birthplace; — Picciola, to whom he owed his life — nay, more than 
life, — his insight into the wondrous works of God, and the joys 
resulting from peace and good-will towards mankind ; — Picciola, 
by whom he has been betrayed into the toils of love ; — Picciola, 
through whose influence, finally, he is released from bondage ! 

As Charney was about to cross the drawbridge of the citadel, a 
rude hand was suddenly extended towards him. “ Eccellenza !” 
said Ludovico, repressing his rising emotion, “ give us your hand ! 
we may be friends now that you are going away ; — now that you 
are about to leave us ; — now that we shall see your face no more ! 
— Thank Heaven, we may now be friends!” 

Charney heartily embraced him. “ We sAaZ/ meet again, my 
■^ood Ludovico,” cried he ; “ I promise you that you do not see 
me for the last time.” And, having shaken both the hands of the 
gaoler again and again with the utmost cordiality, the Count quit- 
ted the fortress. 

After his carriage had traversed the esplanade, and left far behind 
the mountain on which the citadel is situated, crossed the bridge 


PICCIOL'A. 


153 


over the Clusone, and attained the Suza road, a voice still conti- 
nued crying aloud from the ramparts — ^^Addio, Signor Conte! 
AddiOf addio, Picciola /” 

♦ ***#♦♦#**# 

Six months afterwards, a rich equipage stopped at the gate of 
the state prison of Fenestrella ; from which alighted a traveller in- 
quiring for Ludovico Ritti : the former prisoner was come to pay a 
visit to his gaoler ! A young lady, richly attired, was leaning ten- 
derly upon his arm, — Teresa Girardi, now Countess de Charney. 
Together, the young couple visited the little court, and the mise- 
rable camera, so long the abode of weariness, scepticism, and 
despair. Of all the sentences which had formerly disfigured the 
wall, one only had been suffered to remain ; — 

“ Learning, wit, beauty, youth, fortune, are insufficient to con- 
fer happiness upon man.” 

To which the gentle hand of Teresa now added, “ if unshared 
by affection — and a kiss, deposited by Charney upon her lovely 
cheek, seemed to confirm her emendation. 

The Count was come to request Ludovico would stand god- 
father to his first-born chiUl . which was to make its appearance 
before the close of the year ; and, me object of their mission ac- 
complished, the young couple proceeded to Turin, where, in his 
beautiful villa, Girardi was awaiting their return. 

There, in a garden closely adjoining his own apartment, in the 
centre of a rich parterre, warmed and brightened by the beams of 
the setting sun, Charney had deposited his beloved plant, out of 
reach of all danger or obstruction. By his especial order, no hand 
but his own was to minister to her culture. He alone was to watch 
over Picciola. It was an occupation, a duty, a tax eternally 
adopted by his gratitude. 

How quickly — how enchantingly did his days now glide along ! 
In the midst of exquisite gardens, on the banks of a beautiful 
stream, under an auspicious sky, Charney was the happiest of the 
human kind ! Time imparted only additional strength to the ties 
in which he had enchained himself; as the ivy cements and con- 
solidates the '/all it embraces. The friendship of Girardi, the 
tenderness of Teresa, the attachment of all who resided under his 
roof, conspired to form his happiness, perfected at the happy mo- 
ment when he heard himself saluted as a father. 

Charney’s affection for his son soon seemed to rival that he 
bore his young and lovely wife. He was never weary of contem- 
plating and adoring them ; and could scarcely make up his mind 
to lose sight of them for a moment. And lo ! when Ludovico 
Ritti arrived from Fenestrella, to fulfil his promise to the Count, 


154 


PICCIOLA. 


and proceeded to visit, in the first instance, his original god- 
daughter, — the god-daughter of the prison, — he found that, amid 
all this domestic happiness, — all these transports of joy and 
affection, — all the rapture and prosperity brightening the home 
of the Count and Countess de Charney, Picciola had been for- 
gotten ; — La povera Picciola had died of neglect, unnoticed and 
unlamented. The appointed task was over. The herb of grace 
had nothing farther to unfold to the happy husband, father, and 
believer ! 




THE END. 






c 


s ' ly 

228 93 





\/ =A\ « A : - 

i'M- fM’- ’ 

t- -‘•S> • c««c. V • ' '>t’ 





"HI -''A -'M' 

93 <?-..oW\^. 

jrWPQTFR 







